David Hyatt-Bickle | + Follow Poet |
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Sophia's Lament in Isaiah

In the highest peak of my heavenly life 
I wanted to flow down 
Through the gates of my grave without any strife
The place where I now drown
I’ll never feel the warmth of the life-giving
Even the living sun
Who dwells in the Pleroma of the living 
I’ll never see that son
The Adamas of Light born from Daveithia 
Who dwells in heaven’s world
I’m not worthy of the name Sophia
For my soul has been whirled
Out of my high position like shepherds’ tents
I have rolled up my life 
As a weaver, and my grey soul now laments 
By my own hand-made knife  
That has now cut my silver string from the loom
From day, now in this night
You bring upon my soul the blistering doom 
Like a lion of might
You have broken my bones just as I calmed down
I moan like a grey dove
My soul crumbles as I look skywards to home 11
O living sun of love
I am trapped by death, be my shield in this tomb 11
What words can my soul say
He himself has dragged me here because of sin
I will walk in the Way  
With each step taking a year as I still spin
Wait! A light blinds my eyes
This path is where all my children will find life
Through him who heard my cries 
Now my soul finds sunlight, who had not one strife
Who did not come to kill
I now know my fall was not his misdoing
Instead it was my will
All things that has occurred was by my doing 
For I could not say still
That fearsome lion who shattered all my bones 
Was my aborted child
You have resurrected my body from stones
Though I was once exiled
Your love has made an exodus from my death 
From the dark, endless void 
For you have burned away my black chains of sin 
Through love none can avoid
The grave and death himself cannot praise your love 
But those who lust for void
Cannot find your love, for they refuse hope’s dove 11
Their lusts will be destroyed
Only the living ones, the children of light
Can gives thanks like myself
Mothers and fathers will tell children at night
Of the tale of themselves
How they fell from me, and your faithfulness now
How the sun will save them
My bright children shall sing with brass throats and bow 
Shining as morning’s gem 
With their tongues made of harp strings, bowing the knee
Seeing the Pleroma 
They will dwell in heavenly eternity

Based on Isaiah 38:10-20, Hezekiah’s Song of Thanksgiving

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