I am dumb, oh Love, with dread and awe,
God’s lion in the forest deep.
My tongue is singed with what I saw,
These eyes and ears my soul won’t keep.
Oh Tongue that only speaks the Hour,
My speech that fails by night and day,
Tongue that voices snow and fire,
This throat that claims its rock and clay.
If my soul is tempered fine,
Draw it from the sheath of light;
Whirl it round and round a line
Of words You spoke that gave me sight.
Then this voice will cry as Thine
In the dark or in the day,
Your Voice will turn my heart to wine
And as the Lover, You will slay.