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Is it true
Thou lovest best
Thy meek, unasking children?
Thou hast made us
So diverse, so various,
Yet in the image
Of a Sire
Who filled a universe
With his creative fire.
What father has supposed
His child would grow to manhood
Only hearing and affirming?
What sire could honor such a son?
How could a mind that,
Like a sponge,
Absorbs but never questions,
Doubts,
Or wonders why
Be offspring and apprentice
To a God?
It may be, Lord,
That thou canst never love me
With the calm relief
A father feels
For his obedient child—
The one who’s never any trouble.
But use me
As a bridge
To those more wayward still
Than I.
I cannot give them all the answers;
But they will not ask
The ones who think they can.
Let me speak
To thy lost sheep
As one who,
Understanding how they went astray,
Still loves the Shepherd.