For the time of waiting

The grease coat shining on a rusty pan,

The crumb in a corner of the house of man,

The ember gleam in a corpse's eye

That by a tremulous pathway lies,

The droppings pale on an ancient post;

Are these fit matters for the Lord of Hosts?

A drop of blood on a reeking knife,

A drop in the eye of a forsaken wife,

A drop of sweat on the coachman's whip,

A drop of honey on the murderer's lip;

All drop through space and time, and kneel

Before the Lord of the fiery wheel.

The whistle of a man with buttons brass,

The shrieks of an indignant glass

That cries for blood as wine is spilt,

The rustle of a child's quilt

Whose father stole a breath today,

And with his breath shall debts repay.

A bit of color bleeds with crying shrill,

A bit of water is enough to kill,

A bit of air bursts forth from below,

A bit of sky might begin to snow,

A bitter world cries to be saved,

And a man of sorrows defied the grave.

Weep not for blood of innocence,

Weep not, though suffering long,

Weep not for spilling of incense,

For fragrance lingers long.

Weep not that man purveys a wrong,

Weep not that music is dead;

Weep for the joyous, burning song

He might have sung instead.