Joy rakes through the ashes
And finds a live coal.
With quick hands, it splashes
Fresh scent on your soul.

It’s fire on the mountain
And pearls in the sea,
Youth’s infinite fountain
And life’s sacred tree.

The end of all knowing,
As well as the mind,
It always keeps going
And leaves none behind.

It throws a tarpaulin
To cover the dead
And raises the fallen
And clothes them in red.

More than elation,
It’s the natural state
Of the whole of creation
For seven days straight.

It’s highest perfection –
A road paved with gold,
Whose every direction
Leads back to the fold.

It turns up the corners
Of the innocents’ lips,
When boxed in by scorners
With tongues long as whips.

Yet it can’t promise gladness
Or generate wealth;
You may still know sadness
Or poor mental health.

But the breadth of its being
Is second to none:
Pure and all-seeing
Like the one Holy One.

Photo by Robert Collins on Unsplash

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