"The Beautiful Changes"

"Your hands hold roses always in a way that says
They are not only yours; the beautiful changes
In such kind ways,
Wishing ever to sunder
Things and thing's selves for a second finding, to lose
For a moment all that it touches back to wonder."

I feel like I keep coming up against this piece of a poem (by Richard Wilbur); you know how there are sometimes passages or characters or descriptions you can't get away from? I've written it over and over again in my journal in different contexts, and it seems to answer all these different questions and struggles without really answering them at all.
Like how a good Father can let his children die.
Like paganism, like how the Gospel doesn't seem to have any power over the hardened sin in this world.
Like how people can love God so fiercely in the absense of their hearts.
I couldn't explain logically how it answers those, but bring in the generosity of God, and those questions turn different colors, run together, become silly, laughing, almost tongue-in-cheek.
If God holds roses in a way that says they are not only his...
Then all the breaking in the world must be like that, must be a gift like everything else.
In such kind ways.
For every loss, ever single loss, a second finding.

Deep Poem

I started learning Greek today!
The Greek alphabet is really neat. I'd show you but...I can't. This is not a Greek keyboard.

Here's a poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins from this poetry anthology I was reading when I felt stressed out today. (Poetry is a good tonic for stress. At least good poetry is. Bad poetry is extremely stressful.)

God's Grandeur

"The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And through the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs-
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings."

I just love the sounds in that. Especially "...have trod, have trod, have trod."
I'm not so good at analyzing poetry, but I think it's about how used up the world is, except that it isn't, underneath it is tingling with the glory of God. Everything new every morning. Including us, including our hearts?