THOUGH I DONT BELIEVE, I come to you now, and I lift my doubt to your mercy. Under the scorn of my own pride I open my mouth to ask you again: make an end to these harsh prepara- tions. I made a crown for myself with your blessings, and you locked me down to self-mockery. You said, Study the world that is without me, this wild degree of solitude. I covered up the path of desire and I over- threw the bridge of tears, and I prepared the wilderness on which the Accuser walks. The Accuser has no song, and he has no tears. Speak to me again. Speak to my words. Give this ghost the form of tears, that he move from nothing to sorrow, into Creation, even winter, even loss, that he have weight, that he be placed. Dis- cover him in tears and make a place for his longing. Behold him in your court, one who upholds the throne of praises. Where have I been? I gave the world to the Accuser. Where do I go? I go to ask pardon from the Most High. Prose poem 36 from Book of Mercy
Posted on: Sun, 30 Nov 2014 14:51:23 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015