During the blessing of time on earth,
We sculpt our inner earth and engrave,
The landscape of our inner world,
Diligently, daily, from cradle to grave;
Our whole life is Edit Mode,
And Death is the final, File>Save.
That is why some people, in Heaven,
Are a city on a hill that is shining.
That is why others are deep gulfs, deep pits,
In need of much climbing.
How did you attempt to smooth your vast planes?
Did you dig and remove from yourself?
Or did you add and built to your wealth?
How did your work with others?
Did you scoop or scaffold?
With a tendency to stoop, or a tendency to be dazzled?
Of all the human elements, who’ve gone on to populate heaven –
No city is greater, or wider than that of the most Holy woman.
She who gave birth to the One who would crush the serpents head –
She the purest white dove, back to the safety of the ark now fled.
She is our mother eternal, our Advocate, Immaculate –
She is the greatest city in Heaven, and Heaven itself is our Lord, and she lives within Him, His length and breadth, unfathomable and unscored.
We become the cities of Heaven,
How many in our hearts can we keep?
10? 20? 10, 000? Or just ourselves alone in the deep?
