“Boredom: the desire for desires. ” —Leo Tolstoy
What is the point of sitting here?
I turn the pages chore by chore
puzzling as I read, “He’s Near!”
“He stands beside the open door,”
it claims, yet I am still a man
without a prophet to ignore,
without a tribe, without a clan,
and my too daily life feels no
connection to this sovereign plan.
I murmur, “What have I to show
for these tired disciplines,” and I
wonder what it might mean to know
this God who does not answer why
he calls men to sing with tongues that he leaves dry.
I turn the pages chore by chore
puzzling as I read, “He’s Near!”
“He stands beside the open door,”
it claims, yet I am still a man
without a prophet to ignore,
without a tribe, without a clan,
and my too daily life feels no
connection to this sovereign plan.
I murmur, “What have I to show
for these tired disciplines,” and I
wonder what it might mean to know
this God who does not answer why
he calls men to sing with tongues that he leaves dry.