Over the plain of sorrows
creeps the gentle beating of a sigh,
a breath too soft for trumpeting,
a faith too self-engrained to move the world.
It is the stuff of spirit haunts;
it is the frailest spark of love
that never hungers, never needs return.
Beneath the cover of the earth
there is consciousness arising...
already rumbling in the viscera of men.
There is a moment coming
when the crust upon our eyes
will fall away; the church
will be at rest.
There is harvest on the cusp of time;
when purest joy is the redeeming.
Resurrection of the open heart
will make epiphany of old impatience
borne from those lean years behind the plow—
the seeds of hope emerge and then
the time is ripe for plucking.