We ride our bikes
Around the circle in the cemetery,
Weaving.
I wave up to You on the Cross.
Am I to come upon You suddenly like this forever?
Happy, relieved that You are here
And I can see You, I can feel you?
You are like the ticket-half
I find inside the pocket of my old lead-raking coat.
There all the time, all the while,
Forgotten.
I so often seem to leave You
In churches
And other islands.
And on my beads
Where I can see You, I can feel You.
I take the ticket-half
And put it on the table, saying,
This is God
And He’s here through my comings
And my goings.
But I walk past the ticket-half,
I walk past the ticket-half.
I walk past the ticket-half
Just as I’ve walked past the Cross on our wall.
Our self-importance grows so dazzling we don’t see
You.
But Gentle Jesus, aren’t You always,
Aren’t You every hour here?