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When God's as real as Santa Claus,
And temples are works of art;
When the Bible's living literature,
And the Universe has no heart:
One feels grateful,
But to whom?
When the ritual vestments of faith
Are seen only from outside;
And the strength to live in the void
Becomes a matter of pride:
One feels grateful,
But to whom?
When life seems bursting with beauty,
But everything's accidental;
When calling the noumenal "Thou"
Seems impossibly sentimental:
One feels grateful,
But to whom?
When death is an absolute end,
And pain lets one barely get by;
Prayer's a harmless delusion
And the solace of heaven a lie:
One still feels grateful,
But to whom?
This human urge to say thank you,
Unavoidably orphic,
Requires, just for a moment,
A Creator, anthropomorphic:
So that one can feel grateful
To Whom.
All poems: copyright by
Nicholas Gordon
Free scrapbook poems
permission to use
provided by the author. |
