Clothed, I, in robes,
Sanctified by charcoal deities;
Widowed of this world,
And as yet unborn;
Mourn the galloping pulse,
Of the passing night divine.
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 5:21 PM UTC
Clothed, I, in robes,
Sanctified by charcoal deities;
Widowed of this world,
And as yet unborn;
Mourn the galloping pulse,
Of the passing night divine.
‘Learning to weep, learning to keep vigil, learning to wait for the dawn. Perhaps this is what it means to be human.‘
- Henri Nouwen
‘The robe of flesh wears thin.’
- John Buchan
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