A Sort of Psalm
My God, my God,
you are a refuge in times of trouble.
I see your stone fortress,
your stronghold and its ramparts,
casual shouldering of justice.
Pebbles and rocks,
no solace here.
But I keep on inching closer,
running bare breasts and palms
across this gravel plain.
You are the Refiner;
approach me and I'll catch fire.
You, God, Creator of the heavens,
are so great I can't even see you.
My eyes follow your shimmer through the air.
You can't be only flesh and blood,
can you, because then you'd know
how to draw ever-closer
and loose your hoofbeats on the world.