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 inhuman light should salve,
should clothe, should heal us is un-nameable;
or that our mighty falling-down should be
undone by hope, destroyed by love;
unspeakable, the weight of it, its truth,
borne by one whose light is from
a new pierced side poured out. Feed us
your raging heavens until everything within
is turned into a hurricane of ash.
Restore this hopeless city of un-knowing,
upon whom light has risen fair enough
to soothe the dead and free our merely living
from this prison dark. Until all is new illuminated.
(c) 2016, Karekin M Yarian, BSG