Spark

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.