Black are these drowning days; fierce,
the water's hands that claw my face;
cold, the accusing daggers
twisting in my ears.
Choking, bitter ashes fill my mouth
when I am hurled ashore.
Is this the place where Job once
and I ran to the whirlwind, shouted at
a father I could barely see.
do you hear me?
are you there?
Oh, my fingers and my feet grow weak;
my weary limbs could drop
away from me. But no, not yet.
These jagged stones may drink my blood,
but I am told
your voice lies at the top
of Zion's noble peak.
so I came up the mountain, waited there--
but only silence answered me.
is this all?
must I despair?
Here I cry, my feeble eyes
at war against the night,
my palms spread throbbing on the ground.
I shake and tremble, and I cannot rise;
here I lie, blind in the dark; quiet
I shall stay
until the sunlight
breaks open the day
and I can feel your hands around
my own, then: where have you been?
why did you hide?
You're crouching by my side.
I'm here, is all you say.
and I stood by Golgotha, listened close,
and there, again, I heard mercy--
the sound more beautiful
than I could bear.