RESTLESS
Why am I restless still?
With the bliss of perfect love
An instinct with fulfilment,
Call it God, or One, or That,
I am restless.
I still step back,
Or through.
My friends sigh at me
As I stir them
As I stir myself
To understand.

To be in bliss
Is not to understand

I am restless.
May I say
Should I say,
There may be deeper love,
A love that looks on bliss
Like a mother looking in
Her sleeping children's room?
But does that say it?
 The father too,
And standing back,
Feeling the mother
And her view.
I say it thus.
You bliss at us
To make our life sublime.
Your bliss for us
Is not your sole intent,
You wait.
Will giving us birth
Give us the will
To go beyond the womb,
The comforter,
To meet your very Self?
My friends leave well alone.
Why look towards that comfortable Sun
And turn?
 My friend of friends
Can feel me turn, I know.
He waits for me
To meet him there
Unsaid.
And shall I go
From out of oneness
To that other one,
As best I can a son
Involvement has made friend,
A loneliness to mend?

We prison you in worship
Not in play.
We use your love for happiness
And say,
'Your giving is complete
That we should be
The all in all ourselves. . .'

 

 

 Your risk of everything was great.
You wanted us to know you wilfully
In bedrock of your being so profound
It lies beneath Creation's sound,
That tells of loving and of joy
You have chosen to employ.
And this eventually we sip
And satiate ourselves, not you,
Nor satisfy your wish of fatherhood
To stand upon that rock
Completely understood.

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