My Song for the Dagda

by Rev. Kirk Thomas

As middle age surprises me
With aches I never had before,

And things aren’t working quite as well
As once they did in years gone by,

I notice, too, my pants are tight
From spreading girth I can’t ignore

And sight is fading, too, you see,
It’s gone too far. I cannot lie.

***

And then I think of You, my Lord,
Oh, Druid of the Irish Sidhe.

Your tunic is too short, and so
It doesn’t cover what it might.

And massive belly, porridge filled,
Strains at Your belt alarmingly.

I look at You, and at myself,
And now my pants don’t feel so tight.

***

Again, I think of You, my Lord,
Oh, Druid of the Gods of Eire.

Your cauldron always satisfies,
Your harp does wondrous magic play.

But ’tis not these I’m thinking of,
They do not fill me with Your fire.

Oh no, it is Your mighty club;
And club enough, or so they say.

***

Your club can batter men to death,
Yes, nine men at a single time!

Of course, my club is not so great –
It does not drag upon the land.

But both our clubs show vibrant life –
For just like You, I’m in my prime.

Your passion fills my frightened soul,
I think I finally understand.

***

O mighty God, Great Dagda Mor,
You know what life is all about!

Without great passion, what’s the point?
It’s not yet time to say goodbye.

Each day’s a blessing, waste it not,
Jump up and down, and scream and shout!

And if the folk should point and stare
I’ll use You as my alibi.

***

For as You do it, so shall I!