Beloved, waiting your return
a thousand patriarchs are by our side;
with holy prophets, how we yearn
while ages flow and tide rolls on to tide.
With Abraham, we ache to travel forth
at your inviting word, and find our fire:
a hearth for progeny from south to north,
west, east; from every home and earthly shire.
With Moses’ wish for milk and honey’s taste,
we mothers without children, barren; lost,
do wander in an arid, desert waste.
your law of Love is hard — too high, the cost.
With Joshua, we hope to enter, soon,
— all whole, entire, the people won by you —
the Promised Land: and mounting that last dune,
arrive; no more supplied by Manna’s dew.
With Virgins’ thirst for living water, cool,
we parched and poorest ones need slaking; ill,
and seeking your divine Physician’s pool.
Rain down your sea of crystal: peaceful, still.
With pain, we cry: the maimed and hungry, dead
in sins, and lost in our futility;
stretch forth your loving arm; caress the head;
embrace our wounds: the Lamb’s fragility.