The Weighing
But there’s a point to it all for which We are assured; That the beauty of life is found in those quiet words; Of breaths in and breaths out, and the calm compose of a Writer
The Weighing
A Measure of One’s worth
Of Moral worth
How can this be accounted
To which are the chaff or the wheat from there
It is only in Nights, long nights, where the soul hears it own sound
In quiet, in silence, in dark Long before the dawn
What is the measure of We Men
Is it in the output, in pounds, or in kilos
And of what are we Made of
Does this enter the count
The Weighing weighs Me down and is heavy upon My soul
The gone face of the sun, the moon isn’t even seen in the sky
In the final count what matters
When love fades to dull routine
When neither One listens to the other
Half mute, incidental ‘huhs’ and ‘whats’
No one hears and no one wants to hear
They crave the quiet of the night
And wonder on the Weighing, ‘Is It here?’
A Sandwich and a Drink become Our comforter
Finally I can eat since yesterday
My stomach rules My Life
And still there is no sound, not a bustle, just a breeze
Of tender silence, in the air- which I cannot believe
Another Night still and it all goes on
Existence to the bone, the monotony drags on
But there’s a point to it all for which We are assured
That the beauty of life is found in those quiet words
Of breaths in and breaths out, and the calm compose of a Writer
God is Present, His Yoke is lighter
Yet where can I find this Yoke, I’d give anything to know
Or is it already on Me. Pulled over My shoulder
I’d give anything to Know if I have or Do Not Have,
The Yoke of the Lord in its promises of Surrender
In the Weighing We are Weighed, and it is all settled Done
Its just that We don’t feel it, don’t see it, and its already Won
Give thanks if You Know, and thanks if You don’t
For the Measure is Real, invisible, inscribed in letters on the Heart…