Can we wear out the reaping’s of timelessness,
or risk over-utterance in shouts of joy?
Is festal wine, ever too old with keeping
and can these sheaves ever crowd this bosom over-full?
Could it be?
That we are set aside for the speaking of superlatives–
for the overage of rejoicing: you and i.
Claimed by the ineffable, chosen for joy,
bound in service to the frigates of forever,
that heave under the trappings of delight.
The weakness of this world and its strongest desires
will wane out into night.
But stars will be left for you and for me
an eternity of spoils, endless fields of praise,
a happiness of war.
Sheaves without number for binding
and arms to gather them all.
Forever, in which to cry all
the superlative sayings,
reserved for the redeemed of God
who love to say so, and live in houses thatched with praise.
And the ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Zion with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads: they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away. Isaiah 35:10