Gather us, if thou art lowly.
If thou indeed loveth the lost.
Come awaken the forgotten
consolation of the wretched.
Let there be no obscurity
except this naked poverty:
whose rags cling loosely on the hip
of a meek and muddy spirit.
There is a glimmer in the shade
Where our souls are only whispers.
We are but thoughts, whose pain remains
about the wastes of Mastikhan.
But harken, day begins to break!
The last true light, in trumpet spake:
“ARISE, O SLEEPER, FROM THE GRAVE!
That Christ may shine on those He’s saved.”
Sing out, if thou hast broken wings,
you angels of oblivion!
No doubt, He bears the blessed rings:
the stars of life and keys of death.
How upward moves that golden stride,
one scarred in hand, and speared in side.
And all who follow, follow well:
up from the ashen road of hell.
Cry out thou triumph of all things!
Who fathoms many mysteries?
But that the dead should rise by death,
has not been seen by gods or men.
While lost, we dare this march of souls,
as torture wrought us: cleansed and whole.
Our final hope… we whisper thus:
“If thou art lowly, gather us…”