In failing health I played a whim and moved
midwest to God, too hobbled with my youth
and shame, flushed green with faith I had not proved,
to heave my heart from where I stood to truth.
I struck a bestial slouching stride as best
I could to sling my joints toward the sun,
as if—in shaded sense I could not rest—
the race I crept was not already won.
The voice was still, small as the prophet said,
the prophet said and finally I heard,
the cities bud beside the riverbed;
a lowly garden. Saint Paul says a word;
I sink, reluctant thirtyfold I’m sewn,
concede, all into ploughshares beat my bones.
Taken from the 2018 edition of Artos, the literary journal of Bethlehem College & Seminary students. Photo by C. Williams, BA ’19