Pandora's Box

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 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?