Ode to a Corn Cob Pipe

by Jason Corn

There is no boast of form or shape,

Your glory lies elsewhere.

Your purpose is what makes you great:

The cob of smoke and prayer.

It’s true you have your roots in dust,

And you’re at home in earth,

But embers gold concealed by husks,

Reveal a greater worth.

Your bowl’s a humble vacant tomb,

Transfigured in a flash,

Into a newly emptied womb,

That births the phoenix ash.

A hollowing your hallowing,

Made empty to be filled

With razed ribbons of Christic leaf

Harrowed, hung, and killed.

And as you’re filled with Spirit’s wing,

A ladder you become—

Like Jacob saw in altar dream—

To blessed Empyrean.

Yes, you guide each pilgrim’s climb,

To where silk smoke ascends.

You “glorious lady of the mind,”

A gift Divine Love sends.

If stalk or stem, if plant or pipe,

Your movement is but one,

You lift upward to life and light,

Those ears turned toward the sun.

So raise a song in praise of maize,

comeliness simple,

And be not one to hide your face,

From an earthened temple.

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Jason Corn is a husband, father, and pastor living outside of Raleigh, NC, where he enjoys the sights and sounds of cows grazing, crops growing, and immaculate sunset skies as the sun sinks behind a fence line of trees on a distant hill.