It is not a fruitless 
Thing our deeds here -
All lives, all gifts

Our Justice is a 
Pale imitation of 
The real thing -
But it is striving. 

All things done are seen,
Counted in his being
Where all subsumes,
All things become serene.

The see-saw goes 
Up, it goes down
But at the horizontal
It balances.  O perfect line.

There is giving, and subtraction.
There is gain, and loss.
There is love, and emptiness.
There is ecstasy, and hollowing.

The beam absorbs it all:
Good wood clean
And functioning, true
To its seasoning grain.
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