Credo

By Gerald Morton

Perhaps the measure of a man is marked by his credo’s depth,  
its wealth shared, read, full-throated. 
His intent sailed overhead above the crowd, 
disavowed, dismissed as cusp of heresy. 
“A day to come when troubles binge,” he said,
“Will we flee, fall, or stand to face a contrary wind, storm ahead?”
 
His plain unvarnished say continues on. “Something’s wrong. 
There’s been a rift, a shift, a drift, unnoticed to the eye.
The train has gone.  No watchman’s hue or cry, no trace or track.
Much too late for study and debate… such a fate! 
In that season change - climate, landscape rearranged.
Now, with regret, we’re in disconnect. We need refit, reconnect.”
 
Only then men re-awake, become more than themselves,
join the race, share overspill of grace,
return to what is old, true, anew.  
Not that old Liar’s view nor man’s invent.
A listening, present God of all, has no begin, 
no end, died, rose again.   
 
On that day no lights go out, no storm.  Men of faith continue on. 
The journey of inner steps, rough terrain, 
that inward, upward road to narrow gate. 
Remains a cross, an ache, for conversion’s constant sake. 
Its call, plain as day, by name. 
That’s what we believe when troubles binge in the mind of men.