In what wild wilderness will You
leave me to weep, waiting
for some sign that what I seek is
already mine, unseen?

I have given all to You to take, use,
keep safe, bring brightly home, and
every burn and ache I vowed to bear
for You alone, for Love's sake.

But all appears empty now and gray,
and my greatest fear here is that at the end
of the day I am only me alone and
exerting
nothing.

The delight of desire dampened
to vague trust, the former fire dulled to
ash and every breath that once was prayer
is now just dust, lifeless air.

Is this the lowliness of love, the way
that is no way at all, the weird half-dark
before lonelines is at last pure enough to be
lit with the deep lightnings of God?

When will fire again flash in this vast
uninteresting landscape in me where You
promised to pitch Your tent, to
delight in dwelling?

Or at least when will You again at last let my
shoulder feel the weight of the cross, my
arms measure the circumference of rough wood, my
hands know the consolation of its splinters, my
heart the rending of
pure
love?