Thursday, May 16, 2013


This is not redemption. Nonetheless,
through the silent shame of waiting, still obey.
Blow a trumpet in Zion, for the press
will flow with blood like wine before that day.
The hour has not come yet. Even so,
do whatever thing it is he asks.
Waiting through the waters here below,
gather them. Fill up the six stone casks.

What the locusts ate, he will restore,
in due season sending forth the rain
'til from the hilltops milk and honey pour,
but the cup of joy must be the cup of pain.

This is not redemption, but the sign
of waters deep from which he forms new wine.

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