By Colin Oliver
(1946 - )
Given to God,
the worn sandals of thought
left at a distant threshold,
one's care is for Him alone
that His care may be for all.
Before Him, in His mystery,
the unclenching
of the fists of knowing --
the unhanding of all things to Him,
being in oneself nothing
and no-one,
the fool with open palms --
before Him, that one
might happily contain Him.
Being empty and light,
one is God, His all and His love,
held within the light --
and one sinks as the light
to God, through God and,
for His sake, beyond God.
One is
a pebble turned between God's fingers
to be tossed
into the pool of His everlasting clearness
that His hand might be free.
the worn sandals of thought
left at a distant threshold,
one's care is for Him alone
that His care may be for all.
Before Him, in His mystery,
the unclenching
of the fists of knowing --
the unhanding of all things to Him,
being in oneself nothing
and no-one,
the fool with open palms --
before Him, that one
might happily contain Him.
Being empty and light,
one is God, His all and His love,
held within the light --
and one sinks as the light
to God, through God and,
for His sake, beyond God.
One is
a pebble turned between God's fingers
to be tossed
into the pool of His everlasting clearness
that His hand might be free.
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