The best I can offer for a soul that touched so many.
The hero cannot bide this brutish age
Where poet, sage, and prophet are, at best,
Held suspect by a kind of silent rage.
For who can sleep, secure, when some possessed
Unchartered dreams that test the common gauge,
Prodding their souls to some uncommon quest?
Others prized the measured paces found
In plodding on familiar, chartered ground.
This evening, Daniel, inward vision sees
Your form advance with calm, intrepid grace.
My questioning mind has asked what could appease
The passion and compassion of your face,
Or set that high-born, brooding soul at ease
Whose common anguish is what’s commonplace:
The dispossessed, the undistinguished dead
Become your gracious wine and altared bread.
Eat heartily, my friend, for eat you must
While we from hunger learn both how and when
To seek your poor man’s table, share your crust
And count ourselves most satisfied of men.
And though strong nations pound the weak to dust,
We’ll walk like Daniel into this modern den
And stand to face the public’s brutish roars
With words that cry Christ’s testament, and yours.