The firefly within, zinging in your dark,
soundless is the stirring praise; and stilled
as an ember is the prayer, when dark assumes
a presence. All your larger selves are sins.
God will make you mute; it will be mercy.
God will make you speak; it will be lightning
from the lucid dark: an instant tree of truth.
A dance is in the inner upper room;
jig of them that tie with streamer lights a knot.
Jig of faithful servants sketching Heaven's dance
onto the slate of dark. Our prayers and praise
though just a little glowing fly, appear
to Him in all accord, in the setting of His eve.