Benedictus

BLESSED be the folds of flesh which part in invitation to the tent of meeting;and blessed be this rain of suns descending down which lays us bare. There are no words

to speak of this anticipated moment, when terror and our hope become like one; and the spirit humble moans, cries out, or wails a wordless song, recalling.

That this unbearable light should salve, should clothe, should heal us is un-nameable; or that our mighty falling-down should be so undone by love, destroyed by death;

unspeakable, the weight of it, its truth, carried by one whose light is newly from a pierced side poured out. Feed us your heavens ‘til everything within is turned into a hurricane of ash.

Restore this hopeless city of un-knowing, upon whom light has risen fair enough to humble our dead and free our merely living from this prison dark.

Until all is new illuminated.