Yours the grace that lights my temple’s light,
and yours the consecrated fire grown,
as patiently, at first, beneath the latticed ice,
emerges earth’s first measure of its own.
Here the green wrought bough’s reflected will,
its understanding and its being unknown,
holds that without which nothing can be stilled
before love which is but God’s to know.
But stays the course she does of winter come,
and contemplates in dark the body tended;
and having contemplated thus as one,
the petalled sun on yellow face illumined,
does she burst, at last, upon th’ eternal rush
of all things risen and good in us.
—Darcy Blahut
♫ The live recording of the performance by the composer [5:10] mp3
