The Sands

The soul for comfort holds herself to be

Inviolate; but like the blowing sands

That sift in shuttered houses, Christ’s demands

Intrude and sting, deny her to be free

She twists and turns but finds it vain to flee,

The living Word is in the very air,

She can’t escape a wound that’s everywhere,

She can but stand or yield—to ecstasy

Her Lord is seeking entrance; she must choose.

A thickening callous can withstand the pain

Of this rough irritant, the sands that swirl

Against her thus defied. But if she lose

Her self, Christ enters in—the sharp-edged grain

Of sand embedded grows a shining pearl

~Sheldon Vanauken