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, living death, that entered every part;
Down I fell, straightway, as 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 with denial like a dam--
And off in thorny bushes was 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 a conscientious rack,
Just safely well-defended from darkness and attack:
It is done; it is finished.
Hardly am I better than the way I was before
And yet a change as vast as a realm from shore to shore,
As simple and momentous as a sudden-open door:
It is done; it is finished.
Though I fall again I may never be alone
And wait to be restored in resurrected flesh and bone--
For the tomb in which I dwell is no longer sealed by stone:
It is done; it is finished.
