The first blush of crimson
buffeting the evening sky
awakens slumbering passions;
misplaced fervor;
it catches the light, refracted,
revealing the splendor of the Presence,
the power of the Divine Word.
In awe, the day retires into shadow
but lingering
is the voracious appetite for more,
the insatiable thirst for the glory of the Lord,
such that we would lament our folly;
our fleeting tempers so easily inflamed,
so easily appeased
and turn again to wonder,
to seek, wherever it might be heard
that sonorous voice
inspiring, in equal measure, terror and peace;
conviction and joy.
'Return!' the prophet cries,
like soundings in the deep,
'Seek Him while He may yet be found.
Repent, even in this sly half-light,
of our apathy; your routine and circumstance
that have blinded devotion.
Be not so easily satisfied.
Step down and be washed clean.
Let your toes feel the embrace of moist soil;
the cool press of the river on your thighs.
Immerse, in water and Spirit,
lest dusk fall fully and sleep again
deafen the ears of faith.'
We stand at the eve's pinnacle
burdened with decision
as light slips the vale.
We watch the last throes of the day recede.
We burn, consumed
by the glory and the Word;
and will suffer no rest
though all the earth should slumber.
