Tuesday, January 22, 2008

A Pseudonym for Kingdom, Come

In the place, that is not named,
in the hall, that no one finds;
there is a scribe who sits,
and ponders, upon time.

There is a name he seeks,
a name, he can not find.
Time it heals all scars,
and memory, it too may fade.

This scribe, he doth scratch,
a pate that is so sullen;
for want of years, and light,
he doth in age lose sight.

But memory somehow serves,
to render, incomplete
a soul without begrudging,
a soul, imperfectly complete!

And so it doth go,
upon the book of ages,
that One there is above,
who lives beyond the sages.

And in that mortal book,
there one solemn name.
And in that name...sanctification
of a love beyond one's nation.

And so, within this life,
I will continue, albeit same
to seek that mortal memory
of the Love, that is...His Name.

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