Dashed off this poem about John 10:10 quickly last night, then woke up at 4am and thought of the ending four lines. After that my fingers finally stopped itching to write.
Is it possible I will stop living
my life so intensely?
Will sensations cease to
seem so very real to me?
The tangy smell of chrysanthemums
on my dining room table; the nutty
flavour of peanut butter on my rhoti;
the melody of Est’s thick Irish brogue?
Will my craving, yearning to read,
no, to absorb scripture die away?
Gazing into my students’ eyes; relating to
their ideas; empathising with their feelings?
I wonder if my heart-to-heart discussions with
intimate friends will ever feel less fulfilling;
if a certain girl’s eyes filling with tears
will cease to tear a corner of my heart?
That sense of completion when
finishing a novel; that remorse
when a song ends that seems to
be written for me alone?
“No!” Christ’s assurance, His Holy Word,
crashes across more than two thousand
years. He gives abundance to living,
life that overflows into Eternity.