“Nay, chiefly are we born to die,
it matters not” he says, and I,
though tempted, and like sailors drawn, to siren calls that bid them on,
I stay. Transfix’d by word,
so often read, so often heard,
my soul (must then it empty be?)
redoubles and re-sounds the sounds of Thee.
If emptiness be then my one defense
against seduction’s war on every sense,
remove from me, oh God, what fills my mind
that resonances there your Word may find.
And if my soul be empty, so my heart,
That it may sing the music of your Art.
My will, my life, my all be emptied too:
Libations poured out - nay, drawn out by You.