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)