Who brings from heaven words
Imperishable, a flower bloom
Made human,
He brings thoughts past mind's extent,
Where the heart can't bear to go
And the spirit needs a dare
To hope for.
On the mesas of the pure,
Horn notes like the lord's command,
The place of silence,
Man alone
To contemplate the whole of the human,
As one who only sees, only hears, only knows
The things that can't be seen or heard or known
As if they are the colors of the senses.
The music of the spheres may bend some notes
To fold into the grasp of those frail fingers
That know what it is to long for
What can't be found.
The tones can, through desire, turn to healing,
Through compassion things not understood gain meaning,
Through music thoughts can soften,
Reveal themselves as feelings
That will carry bravely a name
Through the nettles,
Gently kept from any contact
With the thorns.
