Night
I walked in city-darkness underneath a stormy sky,
Dreaming of the echoes of a God condemned to die,
Dreaming of the words of a convict lifted high:
It is done; it is finished.
The darkness all around me was the blackness of my heart,
With tendrils, like living death, that entered every part;
I fell down then straightway, sharply wounded by a dart:
It is done; it is finished.
Then in a moment's clearness, I saw me as I am,
An endless sea of failings hid by denial like a dam--
Then off in thorny bushes I heard the bleating of a ram:
It is done; it is finished.
No guilt within my heart and no burden on my back,
No torment by my demons or by a conscientious rack,
Just safe and well-defended from the darkness's attack:
It is done; it is finished.
Scarce one whit am I better than the way I was before,
But this death has worked a change that no man can well ignore,
As simple and momentous as the opening of a door:
It is done; it is finished.
Though I fall, I know in truth that I never am alone,
And look to be restored in resurrected flesh and bone--
For the tomb in which I am is no longer sealed by stone:
It is done; it is finished.
