Even when low


Even when low can I sing, even I
what He's done,
bent, and
given -

a lie: that was life,

with no living

and the days slipping by

like the wind.

A put-it-off day

was my life, was my way,

and support non-existent.

We are the men, the hollow men

who cry through our dust

"take my trust,

and my help,

and my word,

and my hand,

and my and,

and . . . ."


my God!


The buck stops here,

little-sung, little-honoured

in a dead-end street where deadheads meet

and the mountain has come to mahommed.

And in vain do we rise,

unless it's goodbyes

to the old,

and like dogs flee our vomit.



What He's done is give life;

what He took, sin and strife;

what He rent was His body;

what He hated:

our gods, and our folly -

and He cleansed me from sin;

bent me His way again,

and gave the great gift of His love -


Love's peace,

Love's joy . . .

Love's love.



© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at: soul.communication@outlook.com