Climbing Father (1/30/96)

I have this image of my Father
He is a monument to God,
Self-carved to Michelangelo's standards
And placed for all who knew Him well
To study this, the Master's art.

I shall not seek to be His equal
For there is sacrilege in this
And needed Powers beyond my reach.
But wish I mirrored others, maybe Degas,
Maybe Jesus.
I think I could establish dreams.

If I could stand on Father's shoulders
I know I surely would see God.
How can I scale this pinnacle,
Unless He stoops; my climb allowed?

How can I ask a dead man
For secrets to unfurl my soul?
Can I not understand His God
Unless I view God from His height?

I read His poems from years ago
Before He was my current age.
And think I understand the man,
But sure I do not know the monument.

Irony on irony as sin on sin:
The tools He used to carve men's souls
He could not use, and cannot use,
To carve one dear as me.

Too late bequest, too early death,
His tools rest dormant in my hands
And I but crudely carve
My art, as well my soul.

It this by choice of mine?
And why would I so choose?
Is it to make Him more; me less?
Or is His art so hard to see,
Requiring work and prayer
And sacrifices past my will?

And this is why I seek my God.
For other measures must reveal
The best of life, the best for me
And rest my mind
With peace and satisfaction in my art.

I'm not a child of lesser God!
My God, too, stands ready to forgive.

But, can I ask my mind to rest?
To set me free of guilt and pain?
For He comes to me without apology.
Not more to worship Father's name?
Yes! Yes!
Indeed He tells me just the same.

We are all worthy, more than known,
But rising there's life's trek.
I pray the grace of my God comes...
A freedom found, allowing climbs,
Ascending Jacob's ladder.

And when the steepness comes,
That overcomes my strength,
To feel assisted by
The upward pull from Father's hand.