Silent Prayer (A Sonnet)

They tell us that the spirit prays

with groans more rich than words,

while tongues of fire, dove-winged birds

could shatter heaven any day,

and we are quickened by that grace,

and strive to trace the inward

wind that shatters chaos into chords

and sculpts earth’s dust into a face.

Yet you still wait in stony care—

no morning breaks upon your eyes;

you guard a grave, no peace atones

for all the nights you have watched here:

waiting for the dead to rise

to the shouts of interceding stone.

 

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