St. John's passion

Distill the moment's inner truth. I cannot speak as you can speak - Draw morning light's thread silver-smooth, Pan gold from rock in frigid creek. Yet music's voice sends girders tall To tower in the weaving sky Where I look up and feel I'll fall From hearing all things cry, In quintessential chorus shout That our salvation glints and gilds Each pain, each fear, each reaching out, Each soul-wrenched note insistent builds, And I collapse within my core all spent, A pulsar, now, your power to me is lent.

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