When you stumble suddenly
into his full embrace,
he hides away so not to see
his creature face to face.
Your yourself are hidden too
with all your sins of state;
there is no king to pardon you;
his mercy is more intimate
He does not stand before you,
he does not dwell within;
this passion has no point of view,
it is the heart of everything.
There is no hill to see this from.
You share one body now
with the serpent you forbid,
and with the dove that you allow.
The imitations of his love
he suffers patiently,
until you can be born with him
some hopeless night in Galilee;
until you lose your pride in him,
until your faith objective fails,
until you stretch your arms so wide
you do not need these Roman nails.
Idolators on every side,
they make an object of the Lord.
They hang him on a cross so high
that you must ever move toward.
They bid you cast the world aside
and hurl your prayers at him.
Then the idol-makers dance all night
upon your suffering.
But when you rise from his embrace
I trust you will be strong and free
and tell no tales about his face,
and praise Creation joyously.
Autor(es): Leonard Cohen