Earth, or, When You Take Me From This Good Rich Soil

When You take me from this good rich soil to crown me in Your Heavenly corridors, and rattle my bone-house until the soul is dislodged; no heart of mine will scurry from Your call to abandon this corporeal self in the ground, where my bones once ached and my long legs willowed. Nothing in this earth could please me like Your love does, nor match the bonfire that the Holy Spirit sparks from dead-coal through my body's cabin. When, in the deep cathedral of my ribs, love rings in tones of Spirit-guided prayer, I do not require proof of Your presence. Though You take me from this good rich soil where I grow like a spore in the wily heat, rattle my bone-house until the soul is dislodged; my banquet follies are rowdy guests to keep, and will not retire meekly with the host. Though You take me from this good rich soil, and my heart tumbles like the mechanisms of a lock to leave life's tepid sweat for Your amazing peace, I'll be waving at Earth with each cell's tiny ache, as this rattled bone-house dislodges this soul.