All Saints Day

by Edward Keyes

The appointed scripture storms on incredulous ears
with white robes, palms, crowns, tumultuous songs,
endless prostrations before a heavenly throne.
News? Or piety's too substantial pageantry.
  Apocalyptic's wish-fulfilment dream?

Symbols, no doubt, these garish glimpses of joy
but God's thoughts not ours. No close bargainer He,
weighing out blessings with exact scales
damning with faint hopes our shaky clutch on grace.
The images rouse or repel. Concealed mansions await
  unseen, unheard, unimagined,
  a place prepared.