It’s
more the beauty, our Lord; and more for wretched, our
Lord.
Such paradox, to climb through adversity, to fly fire.
I
sing You—to feel You, semi-ecstatic; and open depth, a
series
of waves, a flood of billows. Its liturgy, surrounded
with
woes, calcified in flames. We turn to see, a sky to
fall,
walled in temperance. Such fever, to roam for bound,
screaming,
“I’ve been here.” I see You, to shift, in so
many
shades; and silence, to hear for loudness, quasi-afloat.
We
chant for swarms, and stir for storms, cleaving Your
arms.
We infer through Love, a wealth of love, stationed
in
Love. Deign for hearts. Infuse for ghosts; to seal for
wounds.
We search to foresee, to birth for zeal, even to shovel
for
zones; and there is life, to render Love, through colored
woes.
We’re vexed, Lord; dipping in rivers; thankful for love.
Was
it hope, or grace, or gift? It was so much more, the jute
of
love, to flood a sanctuary. We’re sorely aware, a war to
tug,
sprinting towards light. It’s a secret gray, in high esteem,
as
cordial as discipline.
