Chapel In The Desert — Image by kenne
Thou whom I name not, whose blood weeping heart
Through thy dry eyes in secret I see,
Divining its pangs by the mystical art
The Fates once sternly taught unto me,
As a soft hand, that beats itself long and in vain
On a locked iron grate, nor can win
A welcome, nor e’en for its bruises and pain
An answering word from within;
So the heart I behold, at Life’s adamant gate
Beating, knocks for Affection, shut out
Alone, while the noon hurries on, and doth wait
In patience and faintness and drought.
The silence that maketh a shrine for thy grief,
My tongue is to reverent to break;
For every sad saint who thirsts like thee, relief
Will I see, though in chief for thy sake,
As a bird, from an oasis frying to sing
To the desolate pilgrims, who stand
At a loss in the desert, and show them the spring
That weeps through the pitiless sand.
. . . from Springs In The Desert by Christo Et Ecclesiae
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