by Anton Wills-Eve
Imagine being told you only have a week or two to live.
That’s happened to me three times in five years now.
Yet it’s never scared me, made me wonder a lot, yes;
But never caused tearful eyes, or any frowning brow.
Family and friends have been distraught, dejected,
And think my outward courage so admirably brave.
But then, they haven’t got my spiritual imagination,
They cannot understand why I don’t fear the grave.
If you think about it, I am really being rather selfish,
Imagine believing soon you are going to know at last
What Heaven, and the God you love, are actually like.
Imagination is no longer needed, for human life is past.
But you still wonder, though, if in your time on earth
You were as caring and loving as you could have been.
You imagine God judging you, a weak, willing sinner,
While mercifully loving you, he accepts all he’s seen.
Keeping his word he balances the scales he promised
Would decide if your good deeds outweighed the bad.
For if they do, he’ll keep his word, making you atone,
For sins, your imagination knows have made you sad.
But a loving God never sends repentant souls to hell and
Only purgatory makes them wait a while to be with him.
Can you imagine having seen the most loving being of all,
Then being without him? There cannot be a state more grim.
But the virtue of hope is now the one each soul’s imagination
Clings to. Regretting, in sorrow, any wrong they’ve ever done.
Knowing they fully deserve their short, unbearable separation
Until they earn eternity in the arms of their most beloved one.
Now, my imagination dwells on this answer to the mystery
Of life, and why we’ll not understand it until we are dead.
But by praying, believing and living as charitably as I can,
I love God more, awaiting Heaven with him as I go to bed.