At The Table of God

The incense spires in their upward rise

Into the heavens bordering earth's skies

Are buffeted and blown by the faintest breeze,

And our ascension may be likened to these

Wisps of fragrance burned as offering

To One known only by an inner seeing.

Few are they who tread the sunlit way

Unconstrained by karma and the grey

Inheritance of death, the body's pain,

Unfulfilled desires and the strain

Of sorrow running through our earthly songs,

The debt we owe for our compounded wrongs,

And human longings beautiful and sweet

Still tie us down and rapidly deplete

The spirit's aspirations, but the Grace

Still keeps at the table of God our special place.