Sept. 26, 2010
Bus driver, move that bus! We want to see
the rooms You’ve been preparing just for us,
Your temples rebuilt incorruptibly,
impenetrable to thieves, immune to rust.
So long we’ve lived in homes in disrepair,
inheriting fixer-uppers far too small.
We broke the windows, pried off the topmost stair.
Our childhood crayon-marks still stain the wall.
Why did You ever move in and share our space;
mend, plumb, repaint what might be well condemned;
leave the Spirit, a deposit of our place
in Your new city – perfect and without end?
The engine will roar – the wheels will roll away –
the twinkling of an eye, and we’ll be home to stay.