by Jen Hunt, from the archives
One night in dry-mouthed horror you'll awaken from your bed
To find life's leaning tower hov'ring right above your head,
And whether you succumb to the vast edifice or not
To crouch beneath its creaking crease and bear its teeter-tot
As Atlas, bent and broken, buckling under global woes
Or Jacob in his tug-of-war with far more robust foes,
On this will hinge the outcome of your fate at such an hour:
If you trust in brittle bones or His sufficient power.
Forget not Him who gladly offers shoulder for such strain,
For weight so great will only cause your feeble back to sprain.
Beware of burdens vainly borne which Jesus should depose,
When waking loads loom large, why, cast them off with your bedclothes!