It’s said his last words were Unto the uttermost part of the earth, My place of birth, And standing there, I gaze upon a cloud And wish to high heaven that he’d come out.
I look steadfastly on His witnesses: clear windows fused with light And heads long gone By walls washed white, And wish the flèche-consuming holy ghost, The flames of Pentecost,
Would fuel my utterance too. I lean on my dormer window to listen for Your foot on the floor, But there’s no shoe- Less hymn this May Day morn, Just ring road traffic taking the wings of dawn.
What is this house that I’ve Made up for you just by my living in it? Were you alive, Would it be finished? You went to a far country for a long time, But left us this stone, and lime.