THE END TIMES

Angel's Landing Trail, Zion National Park, March 2017. Copyright © Michael D. Warden. All rights reserved.

THE END TIMES

Stretch out your hands.

Here

at the bleeding edge,

Here

at the trembling cusp

of

everything,

Bless the bright canyon

into which

you

must fall.

These end times glisten

like ten thousand stars

in a midnight sky,

like fine-spun gold

adorning the mountains

in the late-day sun,

all of them singing

to a vast murmuration

of angels in ecstasy.

Stretch out your hands.

Bless it all.

Bless the wonder

of coming undone.

Who is this who comes,

resplendent in fire?

The seed knows nothing

of the mighty oak’s truth—

but now your eyes are open,

your heart broken wide,

quite wide enough,

to hold

the

whole

universe.

Stretch out your hands.

Throw back your head;

let loose the laughter

you have now become!

Let fly the clarion call

of the coming of the King!

Who is this glorious one,

radiant in joy?

The long years

of your deconstruction

have taught you

not to falter

now

on this

your final run.

Stretch out your hands.

In your parting, sing

like a voice in the wilderness,

like a crazed old man, laughing:

“It’s love!

It’s love!

O my darlings,

it’s love!”