Five Gold Rings

The coins you gave I buried in a field.
Each day the trumpets and the drums
I hear yet closer as you come.
I’ll dig them up, and harvest what they yield.

For I hear, too, the rattle and the clink—
the talent, drachma, shekel, mite,
they know their worth and sing aright:
“This gleam was meant to buy the thirsty drink,

“to clothe the naked, shut the winter out.
To bury gold is as to steal
the bread that is our savior’s meal—
that he’ll redeem us, too, oh, make no doubt.

“We were his glory buried in the vein,
and all creation groans to see
our beauty from your hand set free.
We shall be worthless when he comes to reign

“except as diadems to crown his own,
and even then to crown his praise,
Amen and Ancient of our Days,
the saints will cast us down before his throne!

“And we shall be at last as we were made:
We shall be beautiful and bright,
but dim beside his lasting light.
And you shall shine, by no dark thoughts betrayed.”

I hear them, as I hear the church bell chime
that tells the coming of the end.
This is the hour my ills to mend:
Oh, let me dig them up while there is time

and spend this world’s dishonest wealth to gain
a pearl of greater price than all,
in answer to your mercy’s call,
a crown to cast down when you come to reign!

The Parable of the Talents, depicted by artist Andrei Mironov. Oil on canvas, 2013 – Own work, Andrey Mironov See also ticket:2015070410013036http://artmiro.ru/photo/religija_zhanrovaja_kartina/pritcha_o_talantakh/4-0-398, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=30528194