Slowly, slowly
Comes Christ through the garden
Speaking to the sacred trees
Their branches bear his light
Without harm
Slowly, slowly
Comes Christ through the ruins
Seeking the lost disciple
A timid one
Too literate
To believe words
So he hides
Slowly, slowly
Christ rises on the cornfields
It is only the harvest moon
The disciple
Turns over in his sleep
And murmurs:
“My regret!”
The disciple will awaken
When he knows history
But slowly slowly
The Lord of History weeps into the fire.
Thomas Merton Cables to the Ace (stanza 80)