"Not mine," I hold—
the claim of grief for those
gone from our sight.
Not mine, I peaceably persist—
the will to justify
actions misunderstood.
Whatever vandal tries
to force my citadel—safe
in the bastions of
omnipotence—
must fail and fall
like hollow armor
tossed against the walls!
Thus I affirm: Not of His kingdom—
passport and password denied—
whatever ill would touch my being,
therefore not mine.
Yet there's a second,
happier mile to go.
When word or music, radiance-winged,
brings to some listening heart
the quiet, lifting touch of Love,
I seek this havened anchorage:
The realm in which I work,
the power, the praise—
all these are God's,
not mine.
