Descend

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To one to whom the world is dark,
O dove, descend.
The shadows where he sits are stark—
does darkness end?
O, wound us with your piercing spark,
and wounding, mend.
Come forth on silent feathers, dove;
drop down as rain.
Turn graves to furrows—leaves spring up
from sprouting grain—
and let the one long lost to love
take heart again.
For now we fear the flame that burns,
the tongue that speaks:
too much, too bright the heart that yearns
for mountain peaks.
Too soon, too soon the dark returns,
the burnt heart breaks.
There is a darkness down beneath
the waiting tomb,
shadows behind the lion’s teeth,
a hungry gloom.
Unless some mercy you bequeath,
this is our doom.
But open up the lion’s mouth,
and we go free.
Make deserts bloom, end our long drought,
and let us see.
O flame no wind could e’er blow out,
now burn in me.