From Feast upon the Word (http://feastupontheword.org). Copyright, Feast upon the Word.
grace
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
