Poem June 27, 1988 Issue

Zacchaeus

Richard Marshall Moore

As publican
ruled by emperor ego,
I pursued my duty:
checked each pilgrim's progress,
exacted taxes due—
criticism's revenue (sometimes more)—
amid roars of protest,
and yet I felt no richer than before.

Burdened by the unjust weights
I placed on others' properties,
sick of more when more was less,
I was driven up a tree.
Secretly, in the closet of my leaves,
I prayed for decency. Writhing,
I repented, and confessed I sought
a lighter occupation, a sweeter rest.

This stopped a crowd-tossed craftsman soon to be sorely taxed—Christ Jesus.
He spoke of lightening loads
(or was it enlightening goads?)
and that if I'd shoulder his yoke daily—
a cross, mind you, like my tree—
following him I'd find my peace.
To shouts of salvation he called me
to ready my home as his brief abode.
Down I joyfully descended in my own esteem
and with last-repaid farthing won release—
my heart redeemed.