Number 8

You said that whoever longs to see us must stay awake; our wakeful eye keeps faith with that command of yours. We have happily turned lowliness into a high station; even our own wall casts its shadow over us. Friends lay on the balm, enemies pour in crushed glass; no one knows the cure for our wounded heart. Just as a breeze coaxes a rose petal out of the garden, when will a lament draw the torn pieces of our heart from us? Every strand of my breath is caught in the cords of a lament; what more, O longing, do you want from my worn-out soul? The ascetic's piety is just a branch of our family of unbelief; his prayer beads are close kin to our pagan girdle. Though we became a byword for a soiled and sinful life, the water of mercy still flows in the stream of our repentance. We don't know what new mischief will set it preening again; today the smell of blood drifts from our door and walls. We have fallen from the summit of the sky to the threshold; O Generous One, it is not noble to torment us this much.