Our ship stands off the coast. From where we lie,
The moss“green hills resemble what we’ve lost:
Sweet plenty, peace, a smiling sky,
A life in moments, no regrets,
No yearning for unreachable not yets.
But then we shoot the surf and make the land,
And then begin our days of heat and frost,
The insects, shirkers, boredom, sand.
Anticipation never gave
The view it framed beneath its architrave.
We wait, we hope, imagine what’s to come,
Beg something like true home once we have crossed
To Love, to where all lines are plumb.
Reality, however, fails.
We leave our dreams to see a world that pales.
And You, my Lord, who know our thwarts and balks,
Who met them and Yourself paid out the cost,
Still call us with the preacher’s talks
Toward landfall that outshines his words
As tended gardens do the scat of birds.
”John Brugaletta
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
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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.
Make your Fall Campaign gift now using the button below.
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