Sliver of Grace

He sees
the futility
of all that once
had spurred him on:
women’s attention,
sex and recognition,
the brightness of his works,
the brightness of greater works to be,
the knowledge that he’d gathered,
the so-called independence he had prized.

He sees
the futility
of his long-familiar, long-unquestioned
identity.

What’s the point
of eating all this food,
of drinking all this,
drinking from the world
of sensuousness
without Me,
he thinks.

He sees the meaninglessness
of his life –
wherein much seems to happen,
wherein he’s a slave
to temporary pleasures, excitement,
a slave
to circumstance.
He’s a pale imitation
of living –
although he mingles with friends,
although he’s not without respect,
although a smile plays frequently
upon his lips,
although he’s envied in some ways.

That perception,
for all its pain,
is grace.

It’s given to only a few.
Countless are those
who pin their hopes
on the sensuous world,
who feel the sensuous world,
the world of time
will spill the beans
on the secret of happiness.

Countless are those
who don’t see the slaughterhouse man,
but a benefactor,
or foundation of their lives.

He sees
what he’d been doing up to now
is largely worthless.
He cries out now.
He cries out to Me,
his only food the hope
for a glimpse of Me.
A sliver of grace
has descended on him:
he now can see
there’s no hope in a world
devoid of Me.

He’s not among
articulate men,
not among the learned,
no scholar, no intellectual,
and he falls short
of social graces.

Yet no matter.

He has begun to live.

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