Maybe Underneath the Bed Is Sadness

Maybe Underneath the Bed Is Sadness
Maybe underneath the bed is sadness,
Even in the ecstasy of life,
Rejoicing in the gift of man and wife,
Reveling in existential gladness.
Yes, maybe at the heart of things a madness
Cuts through the flesh of pleasure like a knife,
Harrowing the soul with inner strife,
Replacing good with unrepentant badness.
If so, reason not with your despair;
So deep a wound requires deeper healing,
Too deep for any deft divining rod.
More than meaning, you are simply there,
A wonder steeped in incandescent feeling,
Still wrapped in swaddling clothes, the child of God.
Maybe We Need Another Miracle
Maybe we need another miracle.
Each epoch ought to have one of its own,
Reducing skeptics to a single groan,
Renewing faith with evidence empirical.
Yes, we need fresh testimony lyrical,
Changing hearts that else would change to stone,
Healing those who, hearing, would atone,
Replacing reason with a canticle.
If only God would visit us again,
Showing us for sure His patient love,
Taking on our sins a second time!
Maybe we could be quite certain then,
Ablaze with what our faith would outright prove,
So for ourselves to witness the sublime.
Meaning Has No Meaning Without Love
Meaning has no meaning without love,
Elevating sentience to desire.
Reason has no reason to approve
Revelation unsustained by fire.
Yearn, then, with the recklessness of burning,
Coming hungry to the Christmas table,
Holding tight the objects of your yearning,
Ready to find kings within the stable.
In you there is a love that brings to being
Such beauty as you cannot hope to see,
Too simple and too glorious for seeing,
Making it a sacrament to be.
As love gives wings their will and words their song,
So may it give you faith your whole life long.
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