User:Joe Spencer/grace

From Feast upon the Word ( Copyright, Feast upon the Word.
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  rich ground:
  my pagan world
  in one eternal round
  turns slow, into which I am hurled,
  and in which, godly, I
  am born, live die;
  good earth:
  in sacrifice
  I pray the gods give birth
  to season’s fruit; at cast of dice
  I know the will divine
  that makes life mine;
  poor land:
  the Lord of hosts
  arrays his battle; stand,
  pagan hero fight him who boasts
  in foreign strength to kill
  our gods’ good will;
  sad dust:
  our ashes laid
  in unmarked tombs, we must
  submit to God, not gods who made
  our nation great; in chains
  we pray the rains;
  great sky,
  a tortured task
  beneath thy dome now, I
  am slave, and I no longer ask
  at altar’s side the grace 
  of carven face;
  bright sun,
  in daylight, now
  thou hast bestowed on one
  (so humbled at thy throne that how 
  I can thee serve as such
  is myst’ry) much;
  full moon,
  thy nightly grace 
  now marks my year; and soon,
  in worthiness, I will thy face 
  behold, not merely see;
  good thou call’st me;
  set stars,
  in oceans deep
  you swim, celestial cars,
  and bring to me in wat’ry sweep
  a cleansing flood; I sing 
  as I’m made thing;
  O me
  a man (a son) I might fashioned be