Balm of Eucharist

We blind Bartaemus we have heard about the temple gate But have seen no road, nor map for getting there We only day after day hear the direction the footsteps wears away And wait injudiciously for the balm of our impediment, For the seeming joy of crowds coming back More jubilant than the haste that past our darkness Tucked away in ouurselves. And we longing For sight and healing and splendour of the light From steeple frolicking into adoring eyes and heart, Yes, we with palms outstretched and ritual of crying, We come. Here by this gate, the very entrance To a bolder paradigm of self, and fresh beginning More than morning dew showering dusty feet More than mnemonic counting of sound and day's receipt More than the abundant paradox of divine grace And feel no difference in the coming and going But hear the same irreverent haste Without a native context of meaning for shadowed goals Without strategic management of dreamers dream Without wisdom to make the talent multiply The birds cry above the temple roof all day in arid air And find no crumb of bread or latent faith of vision But we blind Bartaemus wait. There is a distant rumbling A different shuffling of the feet, a better coming of hope Light, light, light those footsteps fall Without the weight and bagage of false history Silver and gold they have not provided for But we have authority to walk From these cobbled stones like prisons of his vision crippled So our cripleness blind feel our legs independence And tongue the praise of eucharist And with olympian effort set our jubilee at the finish line In hedonistic glee.