Song of Angels III

Sword-carrier of justice
wings frosted by cold air of divine detachment,
before your implacable presence
our passionate life blood is stayed,
our ardent pulse is numb with terror.

Celestial strider, rider in glory,
pouring out vials, wisdom-filled;
parched fields of our comprehension, ravaged gardens bereft,
their fruits of knowledge fallen, gnawed by the worm,
stretch wide beneath your dew.

You, planter of the heart-tree,
ruby on your holy forehead, perpetually plummeting
charity from your infinite perspectives,
by your fire melt, you, our floes,
grip, you, formidable, in piercing pity, those roots.

Angel of the great Turning,
meet at the crossroads of the voyager,
step in the way of a mountaineer, flung into spiraling descent,
who wring from themselves lonely return;
your glowing joy is their viaticum.

Majestic messenger from the land beyond the river,
you, of fierce mercy, by our hair,
from the bowels of our yearning, pull us across.
Blow on your resounding trumpet
splendor of sunrise in a new land.

- Hildegard Elsberg (1906-1997)

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