Mouths, O, open graves

Proclaiming Christ not raised

Proclaiming Death reign eternal

Instead of Life's imparted kernel

Hands crafting rebellion

Feet running swift to Lust's spry limbs

Foolish tongues proclaiming

There is no God in Heaven

Eyes so tightly closed

Delving inward and away

From the brightness of the Son

And the merriment of day

Fall to the ground and die

Take up your cross and walk

Sprout, and grow, and bear, and know

And be still, and listen close

I have not known the nature of idolatry

A saw that makes, and cuts, and carves my own tree

A hammer that nails myself and raises self up

Up and in and away from perfect love

Have I been cleaned out and set apart for holy use?

Or is my destiny to be found in the refuse:

The potsherds dashed, that dared to gash your feet

Oh, will you make these dry bones dance again?