A poem by Kilby

Gentle Atlas

Dear Jesus, in your Atlas arms I rest,
though human arms I crave, and human hands
to wipe away the tears I dare not cry.
But your broad shoulders long have known the weight
of all the sorrows in this wretched world,
and, though so deeply scarred, your hands are kind
and ably they direct these sad affairs
that never wrenched my heart as much as yours.
Oh Jesus, oh dear Atlas, oh my God,
help me to see you stretched out on the cross,
with sympathy and power infinite,
upholding all the world and holding me,
and seeing that, I'd never fear again
that I'm alone and you're too great to care.
Oh no! Though sovereign, you are not untouched
by our infirmities; exalted high,
you humbly undertake to bear the load
of all our sin, and therefore, all our pain.
If heaven and this globe is on your neck,
if you alone support the cosmic all,
then surely you can comfort little me--
and so I rest me in your gentle arms.

copyright September 2007