by Walt Garlington (February 2024)
The cold winter rain echoes through the darkness
As it falls steadily, melancholically,
Through the trees and upon the roof and the fields.
Within his simple wooden home, a man rests before the fire
Burning within the hearth, warming his earthen body,
Feeding upon griddle cakes and memories of his forefolk.
The winds then begin to swirl, the clouds descend
And violently scatter the matter in their path.
The man, now sitting soaked upon the soil,
Muses like Job, “The Lord Who gave, has taken away.”
He falls asleep, he dies, his body returns to the earth.
The soul ascends to God, Who is spirit like herself;
To God, Who was crucified and rose to life again—
Who at the end of time will reunite the soul
With a body glorified and imperishable, like His own.
The new man will live upon a new earth.
No one there will fear the Fire, which, divine, does no harm,
But imparts to all—each stone, each blade of grass,
The inmost temple of the heart—the gleam of purity.
The river flows with the water of life; the sea is calm like crystal;
The trees fructify with fruit and leaves for immortality.
His dwelling there will need no roof nor door
To protect him from wicked men and threatening weather.
For there the Light of God’s Grace will saturate the air,
And all men together will behold and worship God,
The Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost,
In the splendor of His Glory, to the endless ages. Amen.
Walt Garlington was born and raised in that part of Dixieland called Louisiana. A chemical engineer by training, he has spent the last several years writing full-time. He has written essays and poems for The Hayride, New English Review, The Tenth Amendment Center, The Abbeville Institute, Reckonin’, Katehon, Geopolitica, and USA Really. He writes regularly at his own web site, Confiteri: A Southern Perspective.
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