Wide-open Door, beneath Your bow 
I lean; Your crossèd frame
all tremor, torrent, tempest's blow
abjures, true-speaks Your claim.

Deep-stainèd Portal, hyssop-kissed
and drenched in knife-drawn life, 
by You souls flee the tombs and twists
of sin and guilt and grief.

And through You, Gate, must any flee 
who prize what cannot stain; 
who grasp at immortality, 
Yourself thereby to gain.

Beneath Your lintel, blessèd Door
I lean, and never fall. 
Add my own sanguine drops to Yours; 
See, here, I bring Your awl. 


No comments: