Friday, June 1, 2012

as the sun.

As light pours over the edges of the sky
in the morning,
is this light? Songs in the air
are the praise of joy and true love,
or perhaps the hollow echoes of the night.
Even nightfall is resonant
with the gentle glow,
till I wonder if you recognise the words.

Our God, for your name to be in our mouths,
our king, the one who hears,
is no small thing.

This grace is no trinket to grasp
and put away
in my pocket, in my wallet,
in a box of wood or stone or bronze.
The pride of our lips,
the tiredness of our hearts
we ask you to break. Pour your mercy
over our recklessness, in holiness,
but let my offering be pure.
You speak with me
from beyond the mountains
but my words are faltering.

Morning is breaking, smashing
to pieces my attempts to walk
where I walked, telling me
I missed the path, persuading me to turn,
to linger on the road, to turn,
to turn back and almost walk.
Where you go I will go,
remember us.

Here beyond the end of the world
and the final word, as the sun bursts over
with the flame of this day
and I almost take a step,
I see the landslide,
I feel the tumbling stones
of forgetting your face.

Remember us! Here where the light finds words
and my heart, and my mouth, whisper without sound,
I find you still. I know you by heart,
the sound of your footsteps
with us, the fullness of the word
to search among these tents
and wait for you,

you alone. As I hear the world
and the people in song,
only you
hear her and respond.

No wonder. This is no small thing
in my hands. Not emptiness,
rebellion, or a faltering sun.
Let him give her the words
of his mouth
and let me hear with your ears
when the light is opened.