I’m here because I hated
Heedless worshipers of words but trust
A truth. I’ve known the eagle’s and the worm’s
Eye view, and am quite happy with one room
That’s not a cell, have watched my muscles
Slack my bones grown brittle, heard my stomach
Quease around an empty table. One forgotten
Cup crushed by the roadside, I head them talk
As though I am not.
Your call, Lord. I am ashamed
For you, who might stop up their mouths with dirt
Who dare to puff and dandle lies about me.
Mercy traces hate like lightning through orked limbs
Scorching leaf and root: they thought God was a tree,
Safe shelter from the winter thunderstorms.
I spoke too quickly when I cried forgotten.
I hear my thoughts above the clamored claims
Upon your year, and you reply: I trust that life
Lets life go on. When time’s up,
Life lets go.
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
War abroad. Socialists on the rise. AI upending human life. Endless uproar online. The modern attention economy doesn’t want readers — it wants users enslaved to the tyranny of the present.
First Things is the antidote: literary excellence, timeless truths, and a fixed point of reference in a culture that has lost its bearings.
But we can’t do it without readers like you.
Our goal: Raise $150,000 by November 1 to sustain First Things in the year ahead.
Your gift anchors readers in the permanent things.
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