The number diminishes: First twelve, then two, The rest far gone, Consumed into The enemy, the juggernaut. Promises of restoration Dangle awkwardly in the wind. Yet the time will come; it won’t Delay. It surely is soon here. The time will come when From the winds of all directions, Men will come and worship in The city where we will all dwell, Complete once more, all restored. The number is diminished: First twelve, now one has Left us. And so we wait, Our limbs all numb, Our head ascended; Waiting for the time to come, The time that dangles in the wings. The time will come; it won’t delay; The Comforter will be here soon. Though broken, soon you’ll be made whole. Lift up your heads; take to your number One more to make yourselves complete. Though wounded, you’ll be comforted; Await the coming Paraclete.