The room is a hollow chalice.
My breath rises like incense unseen.
The walls lean close, listening
for a name too heavy to be spoken.
I have laid my bones on the altar of waiting.
I have emptied the marrow of every plea.
Still the air trembles.
Still the night sways open like a wound.
Jesus, if You are the flame,
strike the match against my ribs.
Set the ash of me alight
until even the dust sings.
Come.
Not as thought. Not as dream.
Come as footsteps that bend the floorboards.
Come as hands that press the fever from my skin.
Tell me why the earth holds me.
Tell me why sorrow keeps its watch.
Tell me what name You wrote
before I was clay and longing.
If You do not come,
this night is a tomb without stone.
But if You walk through,
the air itself will break into resurrection
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