Sacred Tomes

I sometimes wonder
That if Heaven had a library,
What volumes would it hold:
Be it ancient tomes or modern verse
Of poesy, essay, or prose?

To what upon those dusty shelves
Are graced by cherubs’ touch?
The lyrical cantos of Dante and Donne,
Of Milton, Thompson, and Blake?
From Paradise lost and then reclaimed,

And relics, lambs and vistaed hopes,
What will the Heavenly cannon make?
Perhaps the dogmatic prose
Of Calvin, or Luther, or More?
A literary, utopian corner

In the ecstasy of that post-sepulcher place.
Will then pilgrims progress along
With hobbits, and dryads, and elves?
Will books still carry a human truth?
Or be given bodies anew

Transcendental and transformed
With foundational bindings
And pristine leaves of certainty?
For they had been affected
By the impurities of Man’s voice.

Or will impetus be given for
New incarnations of edifying texts?
For the world was spoken
Into being with a Holy Word,
And the word will remain ever-present.