|
He stands in the wild
synagogue of the sensuous rose
Breathing apocalyptic
fire!
Charged with a whip
of seven cords
He drove out the
leeching locust hordes
When zeal made meal
of His desire,
Proclaiming the wild
worship of the Bee!
While far down in the
dark Gethsemene
Of my alien eyes a
memory weeps like a tired
Pilgrim,
As he sightless picks
his way, immired
In the stagnant
pools, thirsting for his home.
But for the fleshy
blindness of our carnal eyes,
Our worlds would
split when any rose explodes.
Blind me! Bind me! O
Christ wind me
In the white
stillness of Your trembling intensity.
Harold Buckley
|
Shrine 
