My Lord who permeates
the wooden walls of this village
church, let me inter thy name,
in this empty valley.

Don’t let this be thy kingdom.

Free me from these dark
narrows so like a fearful
heaven.

Give me
a spell, from a foreign chant,
like the Hebrew word
on the priest’s tongue.

Give me
the red of spilled wine
before they come

before they
cross the farmers’ graveyard
and seize you
from the sleeping congregation
of this Gethsemane.

Oh, my Lord who has vanished
into the wooden walls
so dark, as dark as tobacco,
let me hide thy name, 

let me shelve my hunger,
my fear,
my sword.