(39)

The Daily Work of Love

Our loving Father did not die.
There never was a God above.
It’s up to us, then, you and I,
To do the daily work of love.

Oh, loving Father, how sweet to hear, you’re not above and beyond
up there in the sky,
Not up there with a white beard, your white robes trailing,
as you move among the clouds
on a summer’s day;
Not up there in the sky, hurtling down thunderbolts of lightening giving the storm its say;
Not up there like other gods of renown, throwing up obstacles to block the passage home, to pay
in loss of ships and men;
Not up there, a super being in the sky, scowling sometimes, calling the shots from on high
into play;
But, from the beginning, your energy, that invisible power working from the inside out
exploding us into being,
a splay of heat and light, the dust from the stars
over time, forming a new creation, armed and able to do
the daily work of love.
Oh, loving Father, how sweet to think you’re not above and beyond
but might be discovered, alive inside,
with something for us to do.

 

Endnote: My friend, Jim, greeted me one Sunday morning with an email containing the four-line poem in italics. I had a quick written response. Above is a longer version of it, an opportunity for me to think about the beginning of things when God is seen as creative power, an evolutionary energy within, which has given us both the capacity and inspiration to love.

< Previous Poem	Next Poem >