A Futile Lament
I was feeling like my life had no significance, no meaning, and I continued to lament my lukewarm Christianity. I am not proud of ever having felt like this, in fact, I am ashamed, but even so, this is how I felt when I wrote it in 2015.
A Futile Lament
A plaque in a graveyard,
A name in a genealogy.
All that remains, and then only maybe.
No legacy was left behind,
except for the cluttered memories of the obsessive hoarder.
Papers and memorabilia meaningless to all but one.
For a time they might remember,
They may say that he was kind,
perhaps they may forget his failings.
He called himself a Christian,
but when did he go out and feed the poor,
house the homeless, or tend to the prisoner?
He seemed like such a nice Christian boy.
They never knew that he couldn't pray
for more than a moment without distraction.
Far too concerned about the things of this life,
the transitory, the gratification,
so-called problems that the truly poor could only wish for.
Those who really remembered him,
shall also pass into the realms of ancient history,
and then will it matter that he ever lived?
A plaque in a graveyard,
A name in a genealogy.
All that remains, and then only maybe.
by Andrew Host, 21st October 2015.
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