Not ours the wounds, the bloodied flesh, of those fire-tested ancient souls;
Theirs the bones for grinding lion’s teeth to gnaw to living bread
Or the blood to spell their credo, a sanguine testament witnessed boldly
As fisherman’s inverted across the sea from Calvary, dying Death body’s worthier
Consort than Truth-less life. Not now trumpet blast ‘mid roaring crowd’s delight.
No, ours the seductive sigh of whispered word against the Word denied
And in Truth, the Word who is, is Love.
And once this Love’s denied, what joy?
Not true and lasting Joy but merely pleasure,
Pleasure fleet and fading and distracted,
Distraction to distract from love lost.
Whimpering for some love to last
While mourning the death of our last love,
Thus the soul dies;
Not to us, in our end, the bang, but
During this our exile, without the Word, without the Fire,
How terribly mortal, how insignificant seems our soil.