by Gideon Burton
adapted from Luke 6:38
Pressed down, I feel, and altogether shaken;
these troubles running over without measure.
Where is, oh, Lord, that sweet and peaceful pleasure,
when centers hold and nothing feels forsaken?
Where what is given isn't quickly taken?
Is rest itself a selfish, earthly treasure?
No sacrifice is true if hedged by leisure?
No sleep if not by constant cares awakened?
There cannot be a measure to the giving.
The offering's not offered if it ends,
or even if we know its full extent.
What matter's not expired, delayed or bent.
Despite it all I'm not denied rich living:
there's ample grace through caring, loyal friends.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - john stodder