The bells fly to Rome,
the angels gather,
the wine is dark in the house of feasting.
The lameness in my bones need not
wait for the troubling of the waters, for look!
the Son of Man is here.
Underfoot the palm branches bruise
and the heat beats like brass on my neck.
Here is the house of healing,
and who sinned, that we are thus blind:
we, or our fathers and mothers?
But the writing in the dust, on the wall,
the broken bread, the sweat, the silver,
tumbling along with the churning of the water--
God with us, and He will save his people from their sins--
The wine, the wine;
the blood and the wine!
What I want is simple; it is far as stars.