Throat parched; I cry to you:
A babe at the breast of its Mother
Reaches up, a Madonna Eleusa
When shall I behold the face of my Lord?
The deep within you calls out
And draws out the deep within me
And it calls its Father, its Maker, in quiet
To seek you in all the ways you wish to be sought—
And finds Him
The Spirit in the sound—
The roaring, crying, groaning, of the wilderness in the wilderness.
And finds Him
In the suffering—
in the whispered mourning in the secret place
When shall I see your face?
And finds Him
In the spaces—
the lapse of night, the grey of dawn, the sigh, the pine.
And find Him
In the distance—
The spirit of the deep that longs for You
Is evidence of its creator.
In the creature who longs for greater depth
He allows himself to grow more distant:
For the reach and the stretch and the breaking and the strain.
The child cries for its mother and will not stop
Until it rests at her heart once more
For it knows the one who knows completely
The creature who longs for greater depth.
When shall I see the face of my Lord?
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