Did the mountain’s ancient silence lay too loud for human ears?
Did the frantic inner struggle show as calmly chosen words?
Did the three-day climb in thin air steal their breath & take their strength?
Did the warm torch-fire’s steady glow whisper faithfulness & sight?
Did the boy’s handwoven garment bear his mother’s scent of home?
Did the well-known knife glitter strangely in the far-setting sun?
Did vision cloud & two hearts pound as unceasing nightmare flowed?
& They heard hope caught in the bushes,
Horns of power, crowned with thorns & pain.
We’re weary, searching for hope in the bushes,
Horns of power, crowned with incense & shadow.
Show us the hope caught in our bushes,
Horns of power, crowned with stars & praise.