It's an elusive thing, that man calls 'Grace.'
by Charles Flesfader
So difficult to define, yet sufficient to say,
We meet it sometimes, with it's unique place
In hearts and souls of a different way:
Christ, Ghandi, Mandella, not to displace
Those we have humbly known, today.
How hearts can swell in it's tender embrace!
I have journeyed long and far, it's true
Along life's road, in never- ending quest
Of that special 'something' some call virtue;
Not really knowing, unsure, more or less
That which I sought, so oft it eluded my view,
Except when I chanced to transgress,
And there I met them, those precious few,
Those who touched my life with a gentler hue,
Despite my mouth and angry, ready fist:
A wounded heart’s venemous spew;
Mean-spirited, bitter and vengeous grist
Ready to strike out, at the least impromptue.
Me, the enemy of Grace, that I almost missed
It’s subtle, most powerful, engenderous imbue.
Tis Grace that separates noble from beast;
Little to do with status, riches or noble birth,
Instead, an upbringing, of gentler yeast
Serious, yet undergirded with humble mirth;
Training, character: a childhood's richest feast.
Could, that I excuse self for a violent berth
In childhood, youth, amid environ quite least
But Grace I came to know, and seek the more;
Tasted just a little, more precious than pearl.
For, I saw by Grace my life would be better for.
Forgetting now, pride’s unsatiable quest
Always another transitory wave to crest;
Rather, in humble meditation and search, unfurl
A lifetime of wounds: angst and hurt, to very core.
Yet still, it is Grace that eludes me most;
Who will rescue me from this body of death?
Where is the acclaimed heavenly host,
That promises to unchain my very breath?
Does man have to become a ghost
That he might be released from earthly teth?
Tis Grace I seek, even be remembered by,
It cannot be bought, it cannot be stolen,
If it could, I would surely be want to buy.
Alas, It comes only, in clouds golden,
Through parents, humble, tender and shy,
Or lifelong quest, ardent desire and much pain;
Forged in that crucible of life's troubled wane.
And still Grace remains a most elusive beast
The hardest fought andslowest-won quest,
Of any test man has been want to compete:
For, what my soul cries out for, loudest,
Is what my flesh wishes to do, most least.
And, what my Soul cries passionately against,
My flesh does the most; such foul, corrupted yeast! .
O, that I might miraculously mend;
Some days, easier to die, than journey on,
To mortality’s, shrouded, mysterious end,
In search of whatever I might happen upon.
Why? Might it be that I succeed to spend
Just a little more of the little I have won;
That Grace might increase, as I but tend.
Better this than drown in seas of sorrow,
In desparation, depression and frown.
Blessed hope for a better tomorrow,
Family, friends a man’s real and worthy crown;
To share that which has been his to 'borrow, '
From precious souls who rescued him from drown,
In life’s deep waters, such bitter-sweet, to swallow.
This, that I might live, perchance, even pass around
Just a little of this Grace, in world's oft dark abound.
Grace: a free gift, dearly won, most hallowed ground!