The Garden
Softly do we fall asleep
in Eden where the angels keep
the garden with their swords of fire;
while praying by the olive tree
we fail our watch in Gethsemane.
Take off the difference of the name --
our bliss, our ache, are but the same;
one is fallen and undone,
redemption's in the other one,
but fall and rising make one path,
and mercy is the heart of wrath.
Softly do we fall asleep
in Eden where the angels keep
the garden with their swords of fire;
while praying by the olive tree
we fail our watch in Gethsemane.
One garden seen in different lights
shines beneath the stars at night
and gleams beneath the rising sun;
one is ended, one's begun,
but one point they are on rounded line,
as first and last are one divine.
Softly do we fall asleep
in Eden where the angels keep
the garden with their swords of fire;
while praying by the olive tree
we fail our watch in Gethsemane.
Of Eden's light we are bereft,
but Eden we have never left;
it is but hidden from our eyes,
with none the wiser save the wise;
nor does our scale-blind vision see
that Eden is Gethsemane.
Softly do we fall asleep
in Eden where the angels keep
the garden with their swords of fire;
while praying by the olive tree
we fail our watch in Gethsemane.
There is no difference save the words
and from which side we face the swords
that cut us off from paradise
with light that burns like flame and ice.
Here we are all surely shamed;
here our virtue is reclaimed.
Softly do we fall asleep
in Eden where the angels keep
the garden with their swords of fire;
while praying by the olive tree,
we fail our watch in Gethsemane.
This is wisdom: to know the place
wherein resides the human race.
In our failing it has a name;
another, when it slays our shame;
through our glory, through our sin,
we are where we've always been.
Softly do we fall asleep
in Eden where the angels keep
the garden with their swords of fire;
praying by the olive tree,
we fail our watch in Gethsemane.
The Narcissist
So fair is his existence
no eye resists;
a third of heaven would turn traitor
and give up bliss
for but the lying promise
of his kiss.
The Devil is a lovely creature --
and he knows it.
All creation and his smile
show it.
His beauty is so great,
his style so nice,
and his smile sparkles so,
like starlit ice,
that just to make him God might die --
were that the price.
Yes, the Devil is a lovely creature --
and he knows it.
He sits up in the air,
face like a god,
devoid of every care!
But it is odd
how lonely he is there
with ruler's rod.
No equal can he notice --
and no friend --
nor can he ever move
nor e'er descend;
for if he ever did,
his world would end.
Yes, the Devil is a lovely creature --
and he knows it.
Would to God he had the grace
not to show it!
Mark well, his beauty even God
has not denied;
but his throne is built on blood
and endless pride,
the corpse of glorious love
when love has died.
His beauty has no match.
No equal vies
to rival the mighty light
with which he lies;
it is so easy, and so simple,
to despise
when you lift yourself up higher
than the skies.
Yes, the Devil is a lovely creature --
and he knows it.
