The Feast
And dreaming I saw that truth was a feast
Laid out in the desert of starved reason and mind,
Where wanderers weary could lay down to rest
And fill up their souls on all they could find,
An oasis where lay the richest of meals
Where all that was mystery or sadness or pain
Would be swept up in all the joy here revealed,
All eyes freed from tears, all hearts from all stains,
Fresh clothes laid out to be worn by the guests
Whose years of sore travel left them soiled head to toe
And soft cloths for their brows, cushions for rest,
And the food there laid out! And the new wine that flowed
From the aches in the ground and the dryness of land
That knew all along it was made for a sea!
Such joy on the table, such food in our hands,
Was the feast laid in honour of truth’s victory,
The prize for the faithful who saw in this desert
A truth far below and high above all our doubt,
A truth that transcended our grief and our pain,
Transfigured it too, turned screams into shouts
Of joy and of hope once deferred, now fulfilled.
And at the head of the table sat the lamb that was slain,
The author of life, the king whom we killed,
Now risen, now glorious, the redeemer of pain.
The Consolations of Writing 