A Joy If Heaven Is Perpetual Bright! Poem by Mark Heathcote

My soul is not undeterred to find
myrrh, frankincense or precious, gold:
a swaddling fever to run out the cold,
truth; dare not I, not; agonise-mankind.
Loves inflicted weariness so, undefined.
The exiled advocate, who leads his fold,
oughtn't a son to join a king that shined.
With a princely, unabated, breath of old:
Fondly do the stars not shiver out-time?
Doesn't dissembling winter's passage, refine?
Glories brimful, enlivening green and bold.
I err, to listen, to my soul until I'm-doled-
the sunbeams countless cuts-of-endless-night
more my joy if heaven is perpetual bright.