This heart having been given
no longer seems a prize
nor the hands
or the wordless lips.
The hair brushed back in beauty is now finite
and has ceased to inspire.
Its faded spark only an echo of light.
This flesh pales when compared to the living soul,
still untried and unbound.
Of how much value is the lifeless body
prostrate upon the altar of you.
In giving everything the mystery is revealed.
Frozen in an instant of surrender, everything is known.
Yet the feet no longer dance.
All that was in form is no more.
Offered in the quiet desperate longing,
of a gift freely given.
The shafts of wheat fall at the sickles caress,
even as it moves on in the harvest.
Transformation exacts a high price.
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