And God held in his hand
a small globe. Look, he said.
The son looked. Far off,
as through water, he saw
a scorched land of fierce
colour. The light burned
there; crusted buildings
cast their shadows: a bright
serpent, a river
uncoiled itself, radiant
with slime.
On a bare
hill a bare tree saddened
the sky. Many people
held out their thin arms
to it, as though waiting
For a vanished April
To return to its crossed
boughs. The son watched
them. Let me go there, he said.
R.S. Thomas (1913-2000), H’m, 1972.
“Sacrifice and offering you did not desire –
but my ears you have opened;–
burnt offerings and sin offerings you did not require.
Then I said, ‘Here I am, I have come –
it is written about me in the scroll.
I desire to do your will, my God;
your law is within my heart.’”
(Psalm 40: 6-8)