Here at the tide’s withdrawal, the stark sand
Stretches in desolation, soaked by brine:
The salt of the world’s tears burned hard and dry.
And darkness, darkness over all the deep.
Memory’s wild clasping barely can recall
Blithe grass, deep honey-dipped in golden light,
When laughter was as cheap as a balloon.
And tinkling music bedded in the heart.
Then came the night, hard as a mighty storm
Breaking across our unsuspecting day;
Mortality, like ash choked in the mouth,
Smashes our crystal toys with bitterness.
“Father, have mercy!” yet there is no word,
Here in the tomb Great Silence presses down
And here we squirm, who have no silences
In the small chattering country of our minds.
And we, so brittle, crushed to see the weight
Of His great crushing. And we must be still
In that stone cave where great rocks seal us in,
Not knowing Easter morning is so close.