Not Once, But Thrice

Insufferable is the loneliness which divides the heart.

Should mercy tarry, then it is that consolation bares no hope.

For these hands have wrought many things; both good and bad.

These eyes have wept sore for those unknown.

Tears shed now in secret where souls weep no more.

Liquid are they like shadows pulled from the bone.

So faint is the voice which cries out; so solitary, so alone.

Should not man pray when he takes on the eternal night?

Should not he seek grace when armed with only yesterday in which to fight?

Or should it be in that mercy tarried not once, but thrice?

J. Allen Wilson © 5/2008