Heaven by Dennis Lange

                            Heaven

I long for a place that is pure and is holy,
   As pure as a blanket of snow
Fresh fallen, so fresh that the sky is still flaking,
   Untouched by all hands here below. 

For man’s touch is staining, the pristine he’s ruining –
   His presence is seen by his trail.
He’s coal to the snow, and he’s smudge to white linen;
   He’s ache to the heart, tear to veil. 

I long for a song that is sung from the heavens
   And echoed by songbirds with cheer
A song of good news that is free of all trouble,
   The sweetest of sounds to the ear. 

For man’s touch is staining, the pristine he’s ruining –
   The world reels with sorrow and sin.
The sound of the screaming and sobbing and sadness
   Is dirge that is heard from the din. 

I long that I, too, would now stop all my sinning
   Regret fills my soul when I do,
An aching dismay that I’ve done what I’m hating,
   What I see in others and rue. 

For my touch is staining, the pristine I’m ruining;
   I’m too much like world that I hate.
And yet, I slip often – on ice am I walking?
  The battle within me is great. 

I long for a life that’s not shattered or broken,
   A vase that is precious and whole,
Not one that is chipped, or is glued, all in pieces
…A treasure that someone else stole. 

For, ruined are so many by others unloving –
   The cold is so cold here below.
And lives are then frozen and shattered and broken
   By others who’ve dealt them a blow.  

I long for a place that is pure and is holy –
   I know just one place that could be.
And it’s the abode that’s eternal and lovely
   And there, from all stain, it is free.

—————————————————

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.