The humdrum ebb of pattern’d days
Beneath the unexamined sin
With all her ceaseless sleepy rays,
Stale long before they’re done.
Each man his own absorbéd phrase
As headless lives yet run
And formulated eyes, not raised,
They drink and have their fun
Unperturbed and unperturbing
Think they nothing be disturbing.
A glint of gold upon her modest breast
A square of white as he turns his head
A peal of bronze floating on the wind
A jangling rose bouquet upon the hip
Peace? No! A sword these bring
Against the neck of living death
And forces now a question that cannot be denied.
What question? Truth, what is it? This?
How could this be the two-edged sword?
Leave me in peace! Do not disturb
The days I have left to chase
my lovely banner clean.
How rude the rood to cut into the self-absorbed day!
How to defend ‘gainst such a blow!
What can the wakened do but drown!
If only to forget this Truth,
and back to sleep return.
Just go away! My conscience curbed
But ignorance was blissed.
Blessed? What blessing be this agony
Across from Calvary, wondering
What this Death means for me?
For yea, the sword is strongest when
Inverted in the ground
A splintered bed for paschal Man
To soak with His life-blood.
And yet, not merely shocking sign, nay,
Recognizing truth demands but one reply:
and it will not wait!
Behold the imminence of the intimate Immanence.
The strength of yes! the Word.
Image: Piet Mondrian, Evening; Red Tree