That art has held the hope I thought unseen
Transcends my first unbroken view of life.
Its breath transpires through words and scattered light,
Held forth beyond my reach while I contrive.
But if I strive with art and hope and light
It holds at bay the dark, lethargic sleep;
Reveals the insufficiency of dreams
And hope evokes as deep calls out to deep.
If then my hope is of a higher state
Beyond the hope I'm bidden to maintain,
What choice have I but wholly to take hold
And choose to see the rays of sun through rain?
Attenuated hope is hope indeed,
Contained within a jar or in my hand;
Brilliant as the sun and small as thread,
Transcending all I hoped to understand.
postscript
The smaller hope is, the more it seems like hope than confidence. And which is better? I would say hope is. 1 Corinthians 13:13.