Here on This Earth

If Jesus could weep: If from a garden looking down on a city of stone he (even he) could cry out -- then allow these tears: these streams unwithheld, from a heart that must still as best it can bear what assails it at a shaken hour. O better -- better -- the scalding flood and the cry -- breaking from an unlocked throat -- than the fount, frozen, or the stance, usurped, of a dominion as yet so far from won or lived, without lapse, by any man here upon earth. So tears allow. This brim of heart. Even what comes -- wrenched from love -- as a wordless sound, or a broken word in some pre-dawn.

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