By Marjorie J. Thompson
What is it makes me weep—in book, or film, or gloried sky,
in church with other fragile souls,
in candle flame, in swelling song, in poignant harmony?
What is it makes me weep? The phrase
that forces breath to catch, a word
that stuns my placid mind,
feelings evoked to edge of memory.
What is it makes me weep? Hope
for so much more, much more beyond
world’s drowning sorrow, violent grief,
fear’s stench, convention’s empty sieve.
Oh! Sweet pungent yearning for what is not,
yet must, by promise and by faith, be.
Clinging to what shines in my deep hope
I taste desire for kingdom joy,
I see with spirit eyes what mortal vision
What is it makes me weep? Aching beauty
of ordinary kindness, cast of appreciative eyes,
smallest gesture of reaching love.
Oh, the imperceptible mystery of holiness
radiant in tiny acts of care.
What is it makes me weep?
The tears of grief weigh down a soul
but tears of joy buoy up the heart
with gratitude to heaven’s very door.
From Rhythm and Fire. Copyright © 2008 Upper Room Books. Used with permission.
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