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Vigil of This Humble Dust
LEONA SMITH KREMSER
Blessings to the Hand of our Lord Aristanemi
'Tis nowhere written, Of the sweet and steadfast vigil of this humble dust, The tale in the lingering shadow of truth from 1,500 B. C.
Sunbright day, the joy of the cosmos At the wedding procession of a rare prince, Aristanemi. To His chariot we wailed, “Roadside pen, heed ! Heed the wily butchers at their whetstones. A wedding feast for guests, for us, 'tis death." Thorn-gate, with His own hand He let it down, Our saviour, yet to honor Him stayed but a humble lamb. Oddly then He threw down His armour of jewels. Fragrances and a rosy peace fell to the lamb that was I. I crept forth to pay homage to His hand, But too soon, a sky-palanquin bore Him over the hills.
My vow : pursue His sainted hand, For without His favour, where be this tender lamb ? Bloodied in life, in death in the gut of a human vulture. And my vow I served, even as I was stricken by time. Granite mountain in my path, I limped sorely upward. Marvel ! that under a loving tree sat our Lord In a rosy peace and garlands of dear fragrances. Thus this aged, rheumy eye knew 'twas He. Forthwith loomed a wondrous preaching hall Of four spaces, for animals, men, women and sky-people. Once more, this one beholden waited to honor Him.
O light beyond understanding ! Mid it was He, self-luminous, Our Lord. To us, He spoke as in all our native tongues.
Thus He spoke : "Hear now what ye are, From where ye come, to where ye go. Hear, and know Truth.
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