False, the words that pour from my lipsAnd true as wax, no wane, can be But I, yes I am but a leaf upon the lawn; Gather me as you go and burn the heap if Yes, you will, your will always in this garden Is and nothing else is but you give substance. (The form I follow trembles anew in shame.) Soft, the eyes that spy my soiled shrines And gold, the bull, I fashioned with these hands Or black. But what is ore or ink to you But sand and smears beaten loose from greater things That you had planned for man but Oh! Not now, something different instead. And my wimpy wrist (the limp) just echoes Writing on the walls of my own heart; I see the ghostly hand that forms order of my chaos. And yet (why yet?) I still do that which I would not that which I would I do not Again and again and again and again. Fire in Jerusalem. The temple burns again; O Sodom, my lowly soul, done in and still Fire over the brows of your people again. Words upon the tongues of the village fool proclaim THAT WHICH IS TO COME IS. GATHER NOW AND KNEEL BEFORE THE KING NOT DEAD BUT RISEN. HE IS COMING SOON. LIKE A THIEF HE WILL RUIN YOU. REPENT AND HEAR YOU DUMB.