by Jessica Powers
I am reading out of the book of my own evil;
I am drinking out of the cup of my own shame
here in the darkness with no candle lit.
The Hand of God is holding the book for me,
and I am reading it.
He is holding the cup and its drink is liquid flame.
Where can I hide from this vast condemnation?
The Face of God is merciful, is kind;
yet my own script is pitiless to accuse,
and the deep draught of my own conscience sears.
I try, as once, to make escape through weeping;
but here one sees more clearly through one's tears.
Oh, to be lost, destroyed, obliterated!
To have the self in me erased and done!
Would I were naked spirit holding God
and all else nothingness, oblivion…
Yet since the Will of God presents this book,
I would not turn from it to look upon
the fairest poetry that earth has given.
I would not trade this cauterizing cup
1905 – 1988
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