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.