Grace

We do not understand the gift of grace, 
that it is given, offered as a way to escape
the great oppression our own pride sustains,
the self importance we would others discern.

We come through, breaking records of truth
uncovering the unknown only we can prove,
we decelestialise the sounds of angels and of horns,
reduce their power to our size and to our groove.

Leaning on sure, curated, broader views,
we represent with deft ambition the purview,
we know that knowing more will finally improve
the image others and ourselves lean on,  secure.

Magnifying self to heights our hearts approve,
climbing the stairwells to our palatial pews,
we aim beyond, enamoured with the will to accrue
one further piece of silver, one emotion new.

Feeling there's more, we put all else aside,
we know of close perfection, of possession blind,
withdraw the access to all those whose mind
could not possibly reckon or understand our bind.

And in that process, pride has mounted high
all kindness, recognition, thankfulness are gone,
the sentiments accumulate, who can decode us now?
Our majesty enthroned can no longer be downed.

Seated aloof, knowing the pleb won't rise,
delighting in every word that keeps them far withdrawn,
we've now achieved the farthest distance, sight,
forgotten, pushed the grace that once was so very nigh.

Besotted in damnation, procured with wealth
of acclamations we disguising cheer,
the constructs of our minds forfeit the health,
one simple sip of grace would have endeared.

There is no wise return, yet there's plentiful loss,
it's hard to recognise, even harder to offload
the prettiness, the saddle high, the brightest gloss,
return in low humility to yearn for lasting love.

Much that we would have given then for greater heights, 
for reticent dividends we've now disowned,
returns in shame seeking to once again recoup rewards
that would in peace and lowliness bring blessed grace at last.