When the Elect, Not Hearing

What of those who come

And leave

Unhealed—

Who linger on the hillsides,

Hungering for a time,

Until the bread runs out;

Who turn from clay and spittle

And the Light;

Who, hurrying through dusty streets,

Brush against His robe

And never know?

When the elect, not hearing,

Stand beyond the gates,

There is a grief that rends the heavens;

For they, in Idumea’s shrouds,

Heed not the cries

Of Him who calls to friends,

“Come forth!”