Nothing happens in heaven—
a promised kingdom
that will come
to any spirit
so disposed and poor
in search relaxed for blessing.

The dubious blessing
of earthbound sorts of heaven
indeed are stitched up and poor—
for no such restless kingdom
my spirit
hungers in pain to come.

So, some come
not straining for blessing—
drinking slow the spirit
from the vines in heaven.
But not men like me in that kingdom.
Every draught is poured for the poor.

The poor 
come
to this kingdom-
rich, her valleys full of blessing
in quiet heaven
where no demon can disturb spirit.

My fractured and prideful spirit!
Ill poured and far poor
makes his arrival in heaven—
hungry and insatiable— and come
the hour of rest—the oil of blessing
is waste in the stream of my kingdom.

 So, where is this Blessed Kingdom,
where rest and sweet pause flood spirit?
That holds back its blessing,
brands me hapless poor,
hopeless inhabitant, fledgling to come—
wading in and awaiting heaven?

By Grace, heaven—what is a kingdom?
Come, come sweet repose—play with my spirit,
though I am not the poor that drink blessing.