What is that can be said
on the rampage of the dying self,
that haste of hands at anxious pace
against the millstones of a flouring youth;
Of wombs from wounds winnowed in
Pollyanna daydreams tearfully etched
Upon six graves, at the break
of our golden age, woefully dredged;
Or the restful sigh of love’s final breath
to bid the solitude of flesh farewell;
What is it that should be said
on the rampage of the dying self?
Lo! one thing I know: only a fool
counts his blows;
One thing I know: there’s always
a tale of more woe.
If God sends the wound
then God sent the wound
If God is wounded
then God was wounded
If God is the wound
then God was the wound
If God heals the wound
then God healed the wound
You hem me in behind and before
You knew my form in the depths of the earth
Naked I came and so shall return
My life is a breath and like a shadow passes
(caught in a figurative fog, lost in the draws of Bashan
I knew not which mount I was on, only that for which I had longed)
Should You strike me down,
should I make my bed in darkness --
Where my flesh wastes away
and the worms find me sweet --
I would strike the cords of Sheol,
I would teach the dead Your song
Though were I silent, the whole earth sings it
You are Holy! Hallelujah!
God sends the wound/
God is wounded/
God is the wound/
God heals the wound
You hem me in, behind and before
You knew my form in the depths of the earth
If my life’s a breath and like a shadow passes
May the shade offer rest and in passing profess,
“Praise God!”