This Multitude

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This Multitude

Sonnet — An Invocation to the Master #274

Here, glimpse this awhile, my tattered tome,
A sheaf of parchments bearing anguish’s ink,
Here record of deeds and wounds gruesome 
Borne for Thee upon a whirling globe’s brink.

I have trod Thy cities and gazed at Thy men,
The hopeful and old, the wayward and wise,
I have heard of all their cares so human,
For a handful of joy their enormous labours.

Am I too caught by this vain human stain,
Is there no lofty aim that juts high above,
Beyond the mortal clouds that disdain
The heart’s claim for Thy divine love?

Amidst this multitude is my aspiring call,
Thou alone canst answer if Thou hearest at all.