Thy Serfs

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Thy Serfs

Poem — An Invocation to the Master #282

Oh I wish Thee better men,
Just as Thee of make uncommon;

With minds vast and yet supple 
That every venture can grapple,
The gross and grandiose,
Truth finder without remorse,
Maker and breaker,
Of every aim the seeker;

And hearts wide as welcoming arms,
Rich as a flower of hued graces,
Ever bold and easily tender,
Eager as a child for joy and wonder,
Love’s rosy prodigal,
A catalyst in every spectacle.

And bodies stout as adamant oak,
Hands that the world can remake,
Nerves like a bowstring
To every strenuous aim leaping,
Visage noble and a kindly smile 
That no time’s mar can defile.

Men with these I wish Thee O King,
Like a star-crusted halo to Thy sun shining.
But I, I am of the earthly clay,
Yielding to every whim stray,
Dull and low-born,
So the fates have written.

Be gracious to me O Divine King
Am least of Thy serfs Thy will serving.