(Taylor/Price)
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Source of all we hope or dread, sheepdog, jackal, rattler, swan.
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We hunt your face and long to trust that your hid mouth will say again
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let there be light, a clear new day.
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But when we thirst in this dry night,
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we drink from hot wells poisoned with the blood of children.
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And when we strain to hear a steady homing beam,
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our ears are balked by stifled moans
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and howls of desolation from the throats of sisters, brother, wild men,
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clawing at the gates for bread.
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Even our own feeble hands aim to seize the crown you wear
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and work our private havoc through the known and unknown lands of space.
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Absolute in flame beyond us, seed and source of Dark and Day,
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maker whom we beg to be our mother father comrade mate.
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Till our few atoms blow to dust or form again in wiser lives
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or find your face and hear our name in your calm voice the end of night if dark may end.
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Wellspring gold of dark and day, be here, be now.
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New Hymn
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James Taylor |