And when shall I see God?
When reap the terror that is sown
In the slow stripping of flesh from bone?
I waver here, alone.
What was the blessedness I knew?
Green pastures, fountains free?
Oh sheltered pew,
If only I had learned of you
The breaking of my bones
One step enough for me.
From broken lips, all words fall dry.
Let skin worms squirm and groan.
Let death be mine, and even he could never satisfy
If he comes soon.
For from these swollen lids,
First I would read the runes
You’ve written on my bones.
And see You in my flesh.
That from this death
I wake in likeness as Your own.
Kyle Lehman is a teacher and poet who loves to watch things grow like seeds, strange ideas, and the moon. He lives with his wife Claudia in Păltiniş, Romania and blogs about teaching at apearlineverycowslipsear.wordpress.com.