I take my solitude as it comes
a gift that drops unexpectedly
but often when I seek it out
I seek it in the woods or sea.
There the waves lap close to shore
and crashing, murmurs of God’s approach;
then boldly run my thoughts to Him
knowing He hears me when I speak.
I borrow, you borrow, we borrow
She borrows, he borrows, they borrow
The world borrows and borrows to joint sorrow
Hoping there will always be tomorrow.
What, then, do we borrow to our self-destruction
But justice delayed for the satisfaction
Of a life of pursuing our corrupt passion
And ignoring those who need our compassion?
Say, it’s tricky, quite tricky, isn’t it,
To talk to a squirrel or a rock or a tree
Or a painting by your favorite artist
And believe that somehow it can see
The heart of you that can bleed
And give you all that you desperately need?
Or maybe you talk to the farmer as he hoes
Or the doctor you pay two hundred by the hour
Or your friend who is trying on her clothes
Or the starry-eyed fan who brings you a flower
And say there’s a part of you that’s dying inside
A soul-crushing pain from which you can’t hide.
This Jolly Beggar 