With hearts eclipsed by Friday’s three-day night
And eyes still blinded to their master’s face,
They hear his sermon, senseless that his light
Has thrown the flames of hell to dark disgrace.
The evening sun begins to set its fire,
Their hearts to burn, the longing lenten night
To roll away, and dawning of desire
To rise, lit by a death-defying light.
His broken hands break bread in sacred rite;
Their sudden vision flares to brightest mirth.
Their blindness gone, he vanishes from sight;
And they, with fiery hearts, will light the earth.
Shining wine-red trees tremble
in a rushing Whitsuntide wind
that rattles the breathing, bornagain world
with vibrant revival,
quickening ten thousand quaking tongues
to sing a fiery sanctus.
Flickering sun-colored flames crackle,
shake, break the blue,
rejoicing in orange exuberance.
Golden glorias explode in October ecstasy,
quickening the pentecostal pulse.
Burning bushes burst into sursum corda for
the season’s second coming.
The zealous horizon resounds:
sing staccato doxologies,
speaking of him who spake by the prophets,
shouting their credo:
I believe in the Holy Ghost.