Toll, ancient bell,
Ring home my wayward heart;
Sing to my soul,
Lest from the truth I part.
Chime, ancient notes,
To strum my wand’ring strings;
Peal forth your hymn,
To give my spirit wings.
I see You there, covering
me – a cathedral ceiling
of finespun gold, aspen-boughs
crowning my way with glory.
I hear You in the whisper,
silent assignations passed
from one trembling yellow throat
to another, gentle sighs.
I feel Your gaze rocking me sweet,
and I breathe, slow and deep, pause
mid-stride to rest in dappled
acceptance, cherished by shade.
You are here. You, Your essence,
Your presence – it sings, sunshine
in shadow, gold filigree
on an altar made of wood.
Splintered, I crack open. Your
notes rustle in my veins, seep
past knots, and I’m rooted here,
utterly, completely me.
I whisper, so as not to interrupt,
but your eyes see Another, and my presence
melts into the recesses of the Cathedral;
my footsteps echo hollow on grass and stone.
Kneeling in reverence,
you rise above me to a secret place,
a cleft in the Rock;
and I am left behind, in this plane –
yearning, always yearning.
Even I can see
that in prostration, you achieve elevation;
you lift up your head
and bow your heart
and step over the threshhold