Saturday, October 22, 2011

Wind Song

"The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit." ~John 3:8

Where the mountain roots go twisting down,
In crumpled sandstone to the sound,
Where the white crests curl before they break,
And the waves plunge forth in quivering jade,
Where skies at sunset’s brink are streaked
With scarlet fire at their peaks,
The west wind’s source is drowned, asleep
In the echoing caverns of the deep.

And the people clap their hands and sing,
And through the courts the west wind rings.

And from that aqueous core, the wind
To these chapel doors did spin,
And streaming through the paneled oak,
(Like the Voice Divine that spoke,)
Shattered brittle hearts, and rolled
Salt- dusted, in the depths of souls.

And the people clap their hands and sing,
And through the courts the west wind rings.

It seems a deathly role to play—
To grieve Him till that final day.
So if you’d see the goodness in His eyes,
And let His warm touch take you by surprise,
And let the venomed playthings go,
And hear the wind thick-humming low,
And lay black-crusted burdens at the cross
And let the blood of the Divine diffuse
Through every thought—

And the people clap their hands and sing,
And through the courts the west wind rings.

You’d see the wings of something filigreed with gold
Ignite your deadened heart of dry and Arctic cold,
And all your heart’s stone corridors melt down with flame—
You’d whisper that you cannot stay the same.
You’d feel the scent blown in from Heaven’s fields
The misty, deep refreshment joy divine could yield.
And all the slimy, massive chains you wore—
Crack— and lie in mangled heaps upon the floor.
You’d find yourself fallen upon your knees,
Before that awful, radiant majesty.
That wind would bow your head before the King,
The weight of splendor o’er your head would swing.
You’d be swept up within the shining song
Of Heaven’s warriors in mighty throng—
(Holy, Holy, Holy!)
But if the wind is blowing all too hard for words,
For any sonnets starred with crystal blue,
The only song (the sweetest) would be thank you, thank you, thank you—

And the people clap their hands and sing,
And through the courts the west wind rings.

For if the wind is blowing hard,
Your rigid pride will lie in shards,
And in the hollows of your heart,
Strange strength will rise to fight and guard.
The words— so longed for— bubbling, come
The west wind’s whistle forms the sum—
You’re running at a different speed,
On different electricity:
You’ve tasted and you’ve seen.
A blaze of unimagined hues
(That burn for You, that burn for You)
By the west wind fanned to flame
Stirs up a passion for the Name
Which cuts men’s hearts and stills the waves,
And turns our wants to seek His face.

And I like to think this mighty part
(This gold-sweet wildfire)
Came from somewhere in Your heart.

And the people clap their hands and sing,
And through the courts the west wind rings.
And the west wind rings, the west wind rings.

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