If I could lay my eyes on God
your face is all I’d see;
a mask in my memory
somewhere in this misty place.
Can I believe in what’s invisible to me?
Why is tragedy so dear to us?
A face so lined and beautiful,
a death so old and fanciful –
I’m dreaming in this place,
weathering myself away.
But there is no suffering,
and no end to suffering.
If I knew then I’d be dwelling
in the middle place that you had lent
where I will know that I am loved.
If I could lay my eyes on love
your face is all I’d see,
a kindness right in front of me.
Now I know I’m not your slave,
no puppet carved on your heart’s lathe.
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