The Morning Comes!

Till the joy comes in the morning, I'll be waiting.

Till my pain's replaced by power, I'll be glad.

I will sing and shout "Hosanna" to the shadows,

And the valley will re-echo with my praise.

As I walk the lonely mountain, I'll be singing,

And no rain, however cold, can freeze my joy.

Though the shadows may be deep, the ground is solid,

And the way is paved by those who've gone before.

Redeemed am I! No sin can overcome me!

The battle is already fought and won.

Nothing high or low, in earth or hell can have me.

Though my tears may last the night, the morning comes!

The Pashmina Shawl

Unless I die I cannot live

Pushing through life like tall grass

Wresting the hands that pull me back

Falling, sometimes staying down

Until lifted by the Commander

I weep into his shoulder

Rasping again that I cannot,

He reiterates, "you can."

Feebly loving my lover

Whose death, ten times the agony

Was given ten times more eagerly

Than my little deaths

Sprouting out of narrow lives

I cannot keep

But cling to still, a fool

Knowing her foolishness

Yet wringing weak drops of joy

From joyless rags

When my lover waits

With a pashmina shawl

Woven in love

Dipped in mhyrr

And I, preoccupied with my rag, reject

The fragrant gift, and struggle on.

But when I weary of my wringing,

My hands, exhausted, bruised and aching

Drop beside me, my eyes raising

To the risen dier with his gift

Woven of words and grace and promise

He wraps it round my shoulders

Warming, reassuring

And lulling me to peace.