We must live for God and die for God, You said.
I once thought these were two different things.
The more death makes brittle my bones,
greener and suppler is my heart.
Suppleness is necessary for yielding.
Death is necessary for new growth.
In the Tomb, while sitting at Your feet,
a fire ravaged my house.
The floor of my chest turned to burning coals.
Underneath the blackened rafters, settled among the ash,
my green heart now is weaving a nest.
Wonderful things have sprung up: these ghazels,
songs of praise, tears of gratitude;
attempted fidelity, an awkward love . . . .
Why not consider yourself already dead? You asked.
This makes sense to me.
I was born in Your Tomb.
O child of God, one morning the old shell gave way
to new growth and turned your blackened heart green.
(from The Garden of Surrender, 2004)
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