In a cupboard in heaven
stands a big old bucket
into which God pours
our suffering and pain
and sadness
and all the colours
of our helplessnessand out of which he takes
deep draughts every day
draining, drawing its terrible
rainbow profusion
into his heartand drinking, hears
words uttered long ago
by his own cracked
lips: “I thirst!”
and the crucial echo in that
God-forsaken waste
the declaration:
“Finished!”and from that ancient place
the future rushing near
finds tears and pain and death
incomprehensible:
beside the shining River
beneath the scented Tree
there shall be no more need
for buckets
Copyright © Rod Benson 2002. All rights reserved. For reprint permissions please contact the author.
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