Like the iron teeth of a bear trap your work
Hardened hands hold my foot. I cannot, dare
not, pull back. Your tears fall like molten wax.
What can I make of this display? We call
you Master, Lord rightly, but your sobs
Like a woman clutching her rescued babe,
Or soldiers home from war call their babes --
Wring us helpless. You do mighty work,
You heal the sick, raise the dead. Your sobs
As you wash my feet with tears, sadly call
My name. What is it now? How can you dare
To make a scene as candle wax
Scents our Cenacle and stars wax
Above and sunlight ebbs. The ewe's babe
is slain. Now listen! The holy shofar calls,
And God commands us set aside all work.
Remember Pharaoh snubbed the Prophet’s dare;
And then wept helpless with pathetic sobs
When God's dread wraith turned their joy to sobs,
And merriment to grief. Lunacy must wax
When paschal moons appear and pagans dare
To test the Lord of Hosts. But like the babes
At their mother's breast, our only work
Is faith in God. What other call
Do you hear? That sound? It's but a rooster's caw;
Why should it cause such desolate sobs?
Tomorrow you'll get on with your good work,
And your holy Father's rule will wax
The world with sunshine! The cooing babe
Will play on the cobra's den; she’ll dare
To put her hand in the viper's nest. Come dare
To sing God's praise. Let's give our guests the call.
Here’s your Mother. Do you know your baby
Boy has bathed my filthy feet with sobs?
Let's open windows, light the beeswax,
Settle down to this night's mighty work.
My son will dare to topple czars with sobs;
His call on death will cripple kings who wax.
Today my babe will do a mighty work.
