He does not linger with scoffers
in the slow swirl,
bubbled stem of settled
bar beer, the loiterers’
golden climb.
He sweats all day, in Presence,
mumbles among his tools.
How could he be moved?
He is the original natural man,
moving in seasons built for him.
His laugh is the laugh of water.
He does not count success.
It is his fingers.
Not so the wicked, not so.
He has no self
outside of God, sees what he is
as drives, no one behind the wheel;
chaff, before too many winds.
So how shall he stand-THEN?
But God roses the path
the takers of virtue choose.
It is His heart
they walk on, carefully.
But the way of the wicked
is too wide for signposts.
It is a desolate field
and offers nothing
no one can take.
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
The Fourth Watch
The following is an excerpt from the first edition of The Fourth Watch, a newsletter about Catholicism from First…
St. Cuthbert and the Cave That Couldn’t Be Filmed
August 2025 in northern England was chilly and windy. I had gone over to this land along…
Ukraine’s Religious Leaders and Munich 2.0
Prior to the “Revolution of Dignity” that began on the Maidan, Kyiv’s Independence Square, in late 2013…
