a clot of clay

I think about the endless sea
of God’s immense eternity,
as moonbeams on the lonely lakes
lie lonely till Aurora wakes.

I scan the silent, starlit skies,
and dream about my true love’s eyes.
I see my father, trashed by toil,
with sullied spade from sweat and soil.

I think of Life: that “fun-filled game,”
where bastards never get the blame,
and Truth is twisted till it’s torn,
to pieces, like a babe unborn.

I think about the pain Life’s made,
that victims feel, (in full they’re paid!)
And then I contemplate the earth,
that mother who has given birth

to me: this thinking clot of clay:
a cold and callous castaway,
who thinks because he does not dare
to feel compassion’s Christlike care.