When all is well it’s easy to confess
Your goodness Lord, but when you disappear
Capriciously ignoring our distress
You leave behind despair and numbing fear.
Where now the gracious Giver of all good gifts?
Why now the bleak, soul-searing ache of Absence?
The mind has cliffs of fall with deeps and drifts:
Small certainties dissolve, and former sense.
Is it because, when Present, we try to tame you,
And so, for that, you’re nowhere to be found?
We know, when Absent, we cannot even name you,
But only then our faith finds firmer ground?
If by your Absence you deem we profit more,
Forbid us pray your Presence to restore.
—Thomas H. Bast
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