The Pilgrimage: Part 36 / Phillip Neal Tippin
We play upon immortality,
Stop to reckon, found
To have reckon’d right.
It’s hard to imagine the length of seven days
Before time was made,
The stretching out of the idea of an instant
Over the face of a week.
The form of the furrow
Thorough and long.
The lovely lived shallows—
Oh, if only life was as shallow as it once was,
Better to see the face and so divine the heart.
To come before the Second Adam
Within His garden to be named.