| I have fetched the tears up out of the little wells,
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| Scooped them up with small, iron words,
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| Dripping over the runnels.
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| The harsh, cold wind of my words drove on, and still
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| I watched the tears on the guilty cheek of the men
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| Glitter and spill.
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| Close your eyes and see what’s behind you
|
| Let your pain not guide you to nothing
|
| Make your sacrifice for the living
|
| Step outside the fire that burns you
|
| Cringing Pity, and Love, white-handed, came
|
| Hovering about the Judgment which stood in my eyes,
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| Whirling a flame.
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| Like a flower that the frost has hugged and let go,
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| My head is heavy, and my heart beats slowly
|
| My strength is shed.
|
| The tears are dry, and the cheeks' young fruits are fresh
|
| With laughter, and clear the exonerated eyes, since pain
|
| Beat through the flesh.
|
| The Angel of Judgment has departed again to the Nearness.
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| Desolate I am as a church whose lights are put out.
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| And night enters in dreariness.
|
| Close your eyes and see what’s behind you
|
| Let your pain not guide you to nothing
|
| Make your sacrifice for the living
|
| Step outside the fire that burns you
|
| The fire rose up in the bush and blazed apace,
|
| The thorn-leaves crackled and twisted in anguish;
|
| Then God left the place.
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| Like a flower that the frost has hugged and let go,
|
| My head is heavy, and my heart beats slowly,
|
| My strength is shed. |