אבנימ

I heard that Heaven will be just a bore
As angels pluck their harps in solemn flight;
But what could be a dupe, and falsehood more
I can’t conceive. Why how could that be right?
For how could He take joy in twiddling thumbs?
What twisted thought is this to think Him weak,
Unable to delight His own dear ones
Whose good and leaping joy He chiefly seeks?
Why how with music, dancing, nature’s bloom
On earth, a pale reflection of what’s there,
Could Heaven be a stale and austere room,
And not a blast beyond our dream’s compare?
It’s not been seen nor heard nor even thought
What He in Heaven for His own has wrought!