The theologian's heart sits heavy in his chest.
He has searched, sought, and out-thought the best.
Yet, he has nothing to show for his quest but gray hairs and a book nest.
Scoffers scoff as scoffers do.
Such is expected, for the Way is few.
The theologian needs not a pat on the back.
Nor gold, for he has no lack.
He knows that of making books there is no end,
He has no credit by which to lend.
Still he writes, and still he reads
Still he taps, and still he kneads
Until his heavy heart stops beating.
Now he'll see if his theology was fleeting.
Such it was if not God he's meeting and if not Christ he's greeting.