Pandora's box is empty now;
Our pride unlatched the lid somehow.
We wonder how we could allow
Such evils to escape?
Yet, lessons deep in history
Have long uncovered this for me;
This fabled, former mystery
That often changes shape. . .
Men garner blessings so immense
From wooing, pard'ning Providence,
And start, with gratitude intense,
God's goodness to extol.
But getting gifts is but the hem
Of holding and enjoying them;
So oft, ingratitude will stem
From loving their control.
It never seems enough for us
To see the wind for what it does;
We yearn to find out what it was
Before it blew our way.
So, inwardly, we curse the craft
That caused breath o'er our souls to waft,
That bade us know, then seeming laughed
That limits dimmed our day.
We try to trace, we need to know
The tempting gifts of twilight-glow
Whose rays impel us to and fro
With no real place to land. . .
For truly science can predict
From laws the Lord chose to inflict
Such outcomes as He wisely picked
For wise to understand.
But we, like Job the upright man,
Still vexed within a hidden plan,
Fight for a knowledge greater than
Our faithful God reveals.
That Tree we robbed from, we admit,
Robbed us of His rest, bit by bit---
Made us the carnal conduit
Of whining, proud appeals.
Now in our minds, all things we store,
And prize, outside them, gifts galore,
Yet seek that longed-for "something more"
That teases, tests and tempts.
We think that Hand that prunes the vine
And stores His joy in simple wine
Now from the child of gifts divine
Such fruitfulness exempts?
We are not trolls or dwarves or elves,
Left to produce but for ourselves
And fill up endless trophy shelves
Or run and endless race. . .
Not merely livers of the Law
With passion plain and reason raw;
Men yearn to wield some ass's jaw
To win some highest place.
So, myriad voices boast to fill
That restless vacuum of their will--
Amuse them and entice, until
They break on the unknown. . .
And often find themselves entrenched
Deep in their souls, no hunger quenched,
Holding to life with soul-fists clenched:
A deathly, twilit zone,
Till they through many zones have moved,
Though every proud warpath has proved
To dull their hearts toward "God so loved. . ."
And drench His friendly flame.
The One who drafted space and time
And spoke His potent pantomime,
Then rushed to clothe His creature's crime,
Stark naked in our shame;
But stubborn flesh refused to cling
To shame that needed comforting.
We chose to ban that healthy sting
With medicine or myth. . .
We learned to bear it from our birth,
Say stoically, "It doesn't hurt". . .
Each wandering exile on the earth
Whose head is marked therewith.
Now full-ashamed of shame are we
And callously transplant the Tree
And reap a ruthless trinity
Of body, soul and pride.
We hasten to sate pride's desire
For stimuli, and magic's mire,
Fearing the truth of logic's fire
Would set dark dreams aside.
Besides, do we not have the wits
To shout down holy hypocrites
Whose story loud and long admits
To foibles, factions, strife?
How pitiful the church's shame
Must harken to a higher Name. . .
Just give them time; they'll find the same
Futility in life!
Yes, long ago we read their Book.
We gave their Christ a cursory look.
We sympathize how they mistook
His loving words for light. . .\
He sang them like the pipes of Pan
To bring us back where we began;
We found we must embrace the Man
Whose love refused our fight.
And His men strike us still that way,
Who weirdly weather His delay,
As if they've found some distant day
Where striving is no more. . .
Yet we will still, till cry the rocks,
Pick proudly the Creator's locks,
Convinced that no Pandora's box
Remains for us in store.
MNA
c. 2000?
