The torch that lights my vigil flickers low
As well my soul might, sixty years alone
Peering through dusty Torah; hoping still
To catch a glimpse of David’s scion Lord.
The marble archway dims, and seems to guard
Its latent rumor from my tethered will.
A doubting whisper frames my withered heart:
“Long time your fathers clung to Yahweh’s throne,
Their gasping flocks asmear with brightest red.
What life will breathe its last in mankind’s stead?”
I bow in grief, my fragile fingers torn
For want to hood my face, and heart and head.
But lo – the brand has flared – my Lord is come:
A virgin pierced of soul! a tiny Lamb!
Artwork: “Simeon in the Temple” by Rembrandt