His little religion
of common things
uncommonly loved
served him well.
Especially in Hell.
When the sickbed sunlight
banishes shadows
like the noontime tin
of the storm cellar door
long, long before,
he is the blaze
it takes a man to raise,
he is the stone-
stepped dark a child
goes feelingly down.
As if to be
were to be
by oblivion
given
and forgiven
heaven.
From: https://www.plough.com/en/topics/culture/poetry/little-religion
Date: 2014
By: Christian Wiman (1966- )
From Troubles of The World 