Sorrow Is Too Great To Exist In

Love Has No Other Desire But To Fulfill Itself.

For Even As Love Crowns You So Shall He Crucify You. Even As He Is For Your Growth So Is He For Your Pruning. Even As He Ascends To Your Height And Caresses Your Tenderest Branches That Quiver In The Sun, So Shall He Descend To Your Roots And Shake Them In Their Clinging To The Earth.

Those To Whom Worshiping Is A Window, To Open But Also To Shut, Have Not Yet Visited The House Of Their Souls Whose Windows Are Open From Dawn To Dawn.

In The Depth Of My Soul There Is A Wordless Song - A Song That Lives In The Seed Of My Heart. It Refuses To Melt With Ink On Parchment; It Engulfs My Affection In A Transparent Cloak And Flows, But Not Upon My Lips.

And If There Come The Singers, And The Dancers And The Flute Players - Buy Of Their Gifts Also. For They Too Are Gatherers Of Fruit And Frankincense, And That Which They Bring, Though Fashioned Of Dreams, Is Raiment And Fod For Your Soul.