Whatever hand or stream that bears this world,
whoever wove the nebulae of stars
and lungs and dreams, who gives such wonder flesh,
whoever draws the holy geese to flight,
whatever makes the trees to reach for light
and roots for hidden springs, and me for you,
whatever presence makes and breathes within
the weeping child, the child who looks and clings,
whatever makes her dance, or sing, or try,
whoever drums the silent march of hope
in those who persevere to overcome,
or give their tender hearts away in love,
who made this flesh to throb with life and light,
the fallen tree insistently to sprout,
the pond to reek and swell and chirp and thrive,
whatever wonder sparks this fire in us,
whatever grace conspires to set things free,
and grows our branching lives from common shoots,
who made the human heart—this heart—to throw
its rising, falling waves against the shore
of this slow-yielding, rough, but wondrous life,
whoever gave to me these tears and doubts
like gravity that pull me down toward
your unseen bosom, waiting, unfelt arms,
whoever is the mystery beyond
all things, within me, in whose beating heart
and breath in me I am within all things,
whoever made this soul to ache for you,
this burning soul that is not sure of you,
that, whelmed, devout, unknowing, dies for you,
Thou, whose only absence, out of all
imagined things, alone can break my heart:
Thou art the one, the one, I long to love—
yet do not find, or hold, or know, or sense.
Your voice and mine a perfect silence make.
What is this rising, then, in me toward you?
It is the only name I have for thee,
this cry, this open-handed leap of doubt,
thou mystery, whoever you may be.
So I will let my longing be your praise.
And I will let my yearning be your voice.
And I will let my wonder be your will.
And I will let your calling be my call,
the love that I did not conceive, yet bear,
your arms around me: love for you, for all.
Copyright © Steve Garnaas-Holmes