Ode to the Content

Ode to the Content

What of the uncherished janitor?

Who puts up with shit and with shit,

Who goes about his business with not a bit of contempt,

Not a bit of resent,

By his hand are our tables made new,

Our latrines clean,

Is his work any less than the poet?

The writer? What about the one that endures Time’s test?

Well yes, it is.

Yes many could do his work,

many could man a broom or sponge,

Clean sinks and grunge,

But could they keep that servant’s spirit?

That acts nor seeks any praise?

Could they take joy to the resonant malaise?

Relief

There is a struggle in the life that we live,

A struggle to find something with substance,

Amidst all the things that are not real,

To grasp hold of something good,

Good meaning the way God intended it,

When our faith is challenged,

And we come to find that shooting stars are merely particles burning up in the atmosphere,

Not spectacular supernovas traversing the night sky,

When Santa Claus can't make the drive because of business,

So the cookies and milk are left uneaten,

And a void is left in the children that cared not for presents but only wanted presence. 

Hope is fleeting even when it can be found,

But Joy, no that is something different entirely,

Joy is eternal,

It is there amidst the summits and pitfalls,

And Christ, well, He is there too,

With healed hands and a welcome heart,

To a new earth,

Where Hope so contentedly resides.