Quake

When you said you would shake,

The heavens,

Until only what can stand,

Remains,

I believed you...

But...

I had no idea,

How small a grain,

Would remain,

In hand,

That so much would be shaken,

So much chaff taken,

By the wind,

And your winnowing fork,
And the purifying work,

Of your furnace,

When I survey,

The aftermath,

Of the pre-quake tremors,

I worry for the quake that's to come,

I wonder will I hold on,

What will be left,

To rake from the ashes?

But this pearl may be small,

And the seed of faith,

The smallest of all,

But it's worth is pure,

Come crucible,

See this silver is sure,

It's metal is true,

If I burn, so be it,

May I burn then for you,

The talent may not be buried or stored,

Maybe my logic is tragically flawed,

But,

The grain,

That remains,

Must be true,

(it's the faith in my hand;

my small piece of you)

Can never be undone,

Cemented in time,

By the victory won,

Set like a jewel in your crown,

Set like a nail-print,

Crimson as your gown,

And the blood that slowly ran down,

Where it watered my faith,

Stored deep in the ground,

Yes, this is your seal,

For all that's unreal,

The royal seal on my soul,

That simply says;

I'm yours,

Your guarantee,

And you're coming back,

Coming back to get me.

M. Joseph Burt  (23.09.07)