The Mountains Tremble
How many useless words and few:
The loving prophet and the fool,
For one the Father that He knew
And for the other useless tools
A fool is like a winter rain
That rises up before it sinks
With clouds of gray prophetic pain
Profound as death before he thinks
No one sees the face of God:
The fool contrived his little sun,
He struck it with a shepherd’s rod
And made the sheep of atoms run
They scattered up and scattered down,
Above the seas and mountains ran;
Let not the shores and islands drown,
The mountains tremble as they stand
There was another on a hill
That rose above Jerusalem:
I come to do my Father’s will
And as for these I weep for them
Pavel
April 2, 2011
