“Treasures of Darkness (Isaiah 45:1-7)” — a poem

Treasures of darkness (Isaiah 45:1-7)

Whatever the soul is, it is thirsty.

It craves the water of life

from the hidden rivers within the earth

that carry truth from the deep places

up to the surface where I can taste it.

We exhaust ourselves into hope,

breaking our bones on walls we build.

Our tired fingers finally fail

and let slip the dead weight of our grasping.

A dry husk lies at our feet

with the imprint of our own face

staring back at us,

as we stand bare to the sky

listening for you. 

You never seem to yell,

and perhaps that is part of the struggle

because we only seem to listen to shouting,

to shrill voices trying to convince themselves

of their own importance,

trying to quench a thirst that has only one cure,

trying to convince us to follow them,

while you sit silently, praying for us to pause

and drink from the chalice of your own heart.

Yes, you pray,

and you will use what you will use,

taking us by the hand,

leading us into new life.

We walk through our houses at midnight,

lighting every candle we can find

to push the shadows back,

because the truth of what they whisper

we cannot bear to hear:

That there is a God.

That my image of God is

as brittle as blown glass.

That the crack in the glass

is the doorway to freedom.

That the price of true freedom

is the attachment to myself.

That we will die.

That we will live.

In the silence of the cool night I carefully dig

into the wet earth and gently uncover

the treasures of darkness.

I hold them reverently in my hands,

slowly running my fingers over the smoothness

of wisdom freshly kissed by moonlight,

and press them softly to my lips.

–Stuart Higginbotham