Let all the broken pieces sing
Let harmonies shattered reform after pain
battered bottles make music of resonant joy
though long since emptied, drowning in dust
Let the wind croon through branches bare in the night
What then shall I say to the night?
You have conquered me, Darkness, and I shall not sing?
Shall my voice fall silent in a throat dry as dust?
Shall I crumple, lie writhing, curled round my pain
silently grieving dead memories of joy?
But I shall speak again of joy
and remember the fountains that play in the night
Stubborn love, holy laughter, well up past the pain
Head lifts from the ground, mouth opens to sing
Though morning may find me still prostrate in dust
I will not embrace the dust
I will not relinquish the defiance of joy
Nor in weakness surrender my birthright to sing
to sing, to praise, to push back the night
to seek something greater than absence of pain
But when I am much smaller than pain
Spirit wind, blow then on my bones buried in dust
Knit sinew to muscle, make me wings in the night
to see at first dawning in the valley of joy
a great army, hands lifted, preparing to sing