Here in my curving hands I cup
This quiet dust; I lift it up.
Here is the mother of all thought;
Of this the shining heavens are wrought,
The laughing lips, the feet that rove,
The face, the body, that you love:
Mere dust, no more, yet nothing less,
And this has suffered consciousness,
Passion, and terror, this again
Shall suffer passion, death, and pain.
For, as all flesh must die, so all,
Now dust, shall live. 'Tis natural;
Yet hardly do I understand --
Here in the hollow of my hand
A bit of God Himself I keep,
Between two vigils fallen asleep.
