Life is the blood, the breath, the bones, the self;
The hallowed temple of the striving flesh…
Yet deep inside that mortal pulsing shell—
The enigmatic soul, God chose to bless
With gifts of love, of sunshine, food and rain
Lightened so with laughter and free will,
The endless musings of a questing brain
That ever seeks earth’s mysteries to distill.
What is our purpose then upon this rock—
To love, to labor, propagate, then die?
If born of love why must harsh hardship stalk
The best that hope or fervent prayer supply?
Sometimes it seems we stumble on alone,
Though green still clings unto this crust of stone.
Yet deep inside that mortal pulsing shell—
The enigmatic soul, God chose to bless
With gifts of love, of sunshine, food and rain
Lightened so with laughter and free will,
The endless musings of a questing brain
That ever seeks earth’s mysteries to distill.
What is our purpose then upon this rock—
To love, to labor, propagate, then die?
If born of love why must harsh hardship stalk
The best that hope or fervent prayer supply?
Sometimes it seems we stumble on alone,
Though green still clings unto this crust of stone.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.
Loubert S Suddaby poems 