At concourse G, gate seventeen, My sweat and panting pleas That obstacles were unforeseen May have been fantasies For all they cared of where I’d been. The door was locked within. “I waited at another gate,” I pled. They said, “Too late.” I wait, and weary, fall—hurled back Through sluggish centuries— Asleep. The roof of my poor shack Unrhythmic’ly taps. These Drops of rain suddenly unite In weeks of raging night. I linger, doubting. Then flail straight To Noah’s ark. Too late. Again I dream. Esau. I scratch My hairy arms and smell The wildness in my clothes, and snatch At ev’ry hollow shell Of happiness—in vain—and grope For Birthright, Blessing, Hope. And strain with tears to shed the weight Of bitterness. Too late. Now in my dream I waited and I slept. And suddenly a shout At midnight wakened all, and swept Us from our slumbers out To meet the groom with lanterns bright. But mine would not ignite. I flew and back. A bolted gate. A burning lamp, too late. “Excuse me, sir, I think your flight Is boarding now.” “Yes.” My tongue was thick with sleep. “All right, I’m coming.” “Good, unless You plan to spend the night in dreams.” “No, I’ll be there.” It seems I stand before an open gate, and it is not, too late. John Piper January 13, 2013
Posted on: Mon, 02 Sep 2013 07:32:58 +0000
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