Dark Night of the Soul: A Poem

I asked the darkness of the Night,

“Be there hope in man’s great might?”

“Nay,” said he, “For there I hover;

When Death is ripe his might I cover.”

 

Again I asked the Night so blind,

“Be there hope in man’s bright mind?”

“Nay,” said he, “For there I trot;

When Death is ripe his thought I rot.”

 

A third I asked the Night now stealing,

“Be there hope in man’s best feeling?”

“Nay,” said he, “For there I wake;

When Death is ripe his joys I take.”

 

I pressed the Night in darkest strife,

“Be there hope in man’s whole life?”

“Nay,” said he, “For there I run;

When Death is ripe then man is done.”

 

As Night was closing in with greed,

“Be there hope in man’s good deed?”

“Nay,” said he, “For long I stood;

Where has man yet done one good?”

 

As Night was closing in to sting,

“Be there hope in anything?”

“Yea,” said he, with fearful frame;

“Yet I will never speak His name!”

 

I grasped the Night’s enclosing hand,

“But you will make me understand!”

“Nay,” said he, “For I have schemes;

Now Death is ripe to dry your streams!”

 

I screamed against the Night’s foul breath,

“But you will tell me; no! Not Death!”

“Nay,” said he, “I will not heed;

Now Death is ripe; that is my creed!”

 

I squirmed against enclosing Night

And found the Sword of Truth beside,

And bearing toward his neck so slight,

“Give the name, or you have died!”

 

I nicked the throat of Night so grim,

“Tell me now the name of him!”

“Mercy!” he, “For I must live;

To Death the souls of men to give!”

I cut him deeply near the heart,

“You must yield, or Death to part!”

“Jesus!” he, and shrank away;

Then Light came forth and Night was Day.