My heart’s beatings
I swallowed Your wine,
causing me to dance in
the streets;
letting my heart slip out
a bit
from under the heel of my
brain.
Years later, Your wine
sings yet – in my blood –
not with the rough
immediacy of tavern songs
but with the hymns and
psalmodies of praise,
an influence to my every
movement,
a blood-part of me, the
strength of me,
the heaven’s sake of my
heart’s beatings.
When this cup is crushed,
when my blood is dust,
(judging the Infinite
from the particular), I pray
Your wine will sing
through me still,
filling my veins and
throat, core and skull
with Your ethereal light
and song
on my wondrous way to
becoming You.
O child of God, wine
loosens your tongue and sends you
rambling beyond the
bounds of propriety.
