Carry On, Meek Mortal Poem by Hannington Mumo

It’s the eighteenth day of heavens search;
A scrutiny into the unknowable unknown;
An unfolding of the Creator’s love and awe by scratch
Of the dead veneers of night through to the spiritual bone.

Pangs of determent to frequently assault
And stature has dwindled as a result;
Bones do pull to the fore and protrude
While luster does over time disappear,
Though this to many an eye be queer,
Mortal, all this I beseech persevere
For great is the reward in the Savior’s hand
For them that may with restraint journey to the Promised Land.

And when blades of cold do assault
And those of frailty siphon your strength;
Rest if you must and for a while have a breath,
For all toils depend upon the grease of nature.