The Abandoned

Where is my God? what hidden place
Conceals thee still?
What covert dare eclipse thy face?
Is it thy will?
—George Herbert

. . . thy absence doth excel
All distance known
—George Herbert

God, when You came to our house
    we let You in. Hunted,
        we gave You succor,
            bandaged Your hands,
                bathed Your feet.

Wanting water we gave You wine.
Wanting bread we gave You meat.

Sometimes, God, You should recall
    we are Your hiding place.
        Take away these hands
            and You would fall.

Outside, the pursuers pass.
    We only have to call.
        They would open You
            with broken glass.

Who else then could we betray
    if not You, the nearest?
        God, how You watch us
            and shrink away.

Never have we known You so transparent.
You stand against the curtain and wear
its exact design. And if a window opens
(like a sign) then is it You
or the colors which are blown apart?
As in a station, sitting in a carriage,
we wonder which of the waiting trains
depart.

You startle from room to room, apologizing.

God, You can’t help Your presence
any more than the glassy air that lies
between tree and skies. No need to pass
through wave-lengths human ears can’t
sense.

We never hear the front door close when
You are leaving.
Sometimes we question if You are there at
all.
No need to be so self-effacing;
quiet as language of the roses
or moss upon a wall.

We have to hold our breath to hear You
breathing.

III

Dear God in the end You had to go.
Dismissing You, Your absence made us sane.
We keep the bread and wine for show.

Only what we do not know we know.
When Your great lights failed, fused at the
main,
dear God in the end You had to go.
The winds of war and derelictions blow,
howling across the radioactive plain.
We keep the bread and wine for show.

Like a stream instinctively we flow
down from the direction of Your pain.
Dear God in the end You had to go.

And still our dark declensions sorrow
that grape is but grape and grain is grain.
We keep the bread and wine for show.

At night we look up and see You glow,
already Your wounds begin to wane.
Dear God in the end You had to go,
we keep the bread and wine for show.

Tonight, God, all colors are black,
our small voices out of hearing.
In Your great dark You lose the track.
Detachment is what You lack,
so faithless must stumble back.

Do not weep. Though we were out
when You returned, do not blaspheme
cursing Man. (Then must we be devout?)
Long ago You began to doubt
if You really heard us shout.

It was Your own voice, God, that cried.
Angry now, You thrust back the bolt
against the human noise outside.
Oh open the damned door wide.
Maybe someone dear has died.

Why, God, do You hesitate
as the loudening, urgent cry
gains momentum from help to hate?
Senile, You arrive too late.
Nobody at the gate.

Your humiliation quite complete.
Lamp after lamp, door after door,
empty the curved unlovely street.
We fled not wanting Your defeat.
Far, the sound of running feet.

Until gladly You hear again
an idiot desperate in a house,
the strict economy of pain,
a voice human and profane
calling You by name.

_____________

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