THE END TIMES

by Michael D. Warden

Stretch out your hands.

Here
at the bleeding edge,

Here
at the trembling cusp

of

everything,

Bless the bright canyon
into which
you
must fall.

These end times glisten
like ten thousand stars
in a midnight sky,
like fine-spun gold
adorning the mountains
in the late-day sun,
all of them singing
to a vast murmuration
of angels in ecstasy.

Stretch out your hands.

Bless it all.

Bless the wonder
of coming undone.

Who is this who comes,
resplendent in fire?

The seed knows nothing
of the mighty oak’s truth—
but now your eyes are open,
your heart broken wide,
quite wide enough,
to hold
the

whole

universe.

Stretch out your hands.

Throw back your head;
let loose the laughter
you have now become!

Let fly the clarion call
of the coming of the King!

Who is this glorious one,
radiant in joy?

The long years
of your deconstruction
have taught you
not to falter
now
on this
your final run.

Stretch out your hands.

In your parting, sing

like a voice in the wilderness,

like a crazed old man, laughing:

“It’s love!

It’s love!

O my darlings,

it’s love!”