Dim from the mountains of eternity
where paradise its mortalled edges bleeds
I hear the whisper of an ancient king.
Can heaven indeed be dressed in mortal weeds,
disgarmented of glory but within?
While all the after rings with worship, he
can scarcely spurn the things of humanness,
dust-native, wreathed with this ironic toil
our leprous child of sin, while only he
untouched by sirens suffers in this soil
immortal but in his mortality
when with his clotted clay himself he pressed.
To riddle back the reappearing Man
whose heavens hold but fragmentary glory,
confabulate with him amid the flame,
to intercede, to make a feast for three,
to sacrifice to Salem, to the same
converse, as with a friend, to the I AM,
this is the heaven answered to our flesh,
but not of flesh's foreseeing or desire.
And now the momentary glory wakes
for elements to peel back from their sire;
the dust relents from visage that it takes
into a veiled earthiness of dress;
but what of this to speak I scarcely know,
nor what the mountain thundering pronounces;
or can it be the prophet's dim foreboding
of Jesse's scion? if the voice announces,
then shall the worlds be shaken, and eroding,
avenge themselves upon him for the woe.
Until this tent is tenantless, my Lord,
I watch the waters where thy wingspan beat
and cast the line - but nothing as before;
and as I go, they pierce my hands and feet,
but thou hast drawn the netting to the shore,
and all shall glimpse of glory by the sword.