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O when wilt thou come unto me? (Advent)

You come, I go: one sight of the white Light

and this body drops alone, familiar bone

cold forever, an undertaker’s stone

in a lake of my children’s tears. All right.

What’s left to want but a sign, some surprise,

kindness where the waters of memory

part, Jesus? When you do come unto me—

materialize to my lidded eyes—

what will I be? How will I see what I

don’t want to see? What I am afraid of

is what I want: the unsupposed glory

that penetrates light, the postponed beauty,

the starry child of everlasting love,

the face of truth, beneficent and gory.