We are dying
for someone to hold out a hand
and speak the words of life.
The inferior level at which we live
is belied only by fits of insight.
Hope is an angel raising from the swamps,
so fair, so far, so seldom to be held,
and mercy, like a desert rain
is quenched before it hits the ground,
beaten back by the heat of our vengeful sin and fear.
Let rage be still a moment,
and the thousand furnaces of hate lie low:
from deeper down, from higher up,
and patient as the waves,
the everylasting words of love,
surely, surely, surely will be heard.