by John Light
A father's Adam! He's our spring to life and hope, The image of all father's past And true commencement of our race.
Like Adam too there comes the fall, And we are there in fact and mythopoeic time. The disappointment wells from out of mind; We see his fault before we let our own.
But when we know again our frailty, When world expands and we contract, Our fathers into Adam grow again The genesis of what we do and are.
And if by luck into this larger orbit comes A friend who's little more than kin and very kind Then he our own true father's son becomes In brotherhood and through enchanted grace.
But Adam reaps the devil's grain. He nevermore returns to treat with us, But goes to stand before the Living One Who judges lastly of each wilful deed.
We are the less for this, we brothers, sons, Diminished by our depth of sonship, brotherhood. We die as Adamites our own first death And learn how slight the glories of our blood.
But soon, when mourning's short sleep's past, We wake to find the flaming sword behind. As priests or sires we adamantine then become With service due alone to Adam's Lord.
We fathers know this truth. Our sons will not till they to Adams turn.
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