I’ve often wondered at the extended version of the Gethsemane conversation going on in the Son of Man’s head as the darkness approached…You’ve one last labor. You must learn the final lesson of imprecision: to draw the whole rotten earth in and mingle with its rottenness and sweetness. Death – the chore that will become sacred, but a chore nevertheless. You will have to direct all your energies at a final harmony arriving at a temporary silence to stun the world. You must make the whorish moment durable, so take the thorns and nails as concessions to those who would demand of you a poetry. Yield. ♠ I will miss this broken eden with its fine layer of lint and unpleasant marriages. O, Jerusalem, Jerusalem. ♠ Yes, but this is your ripening despite history.
Your final act will not be repeated. It must not be rendered dishonestly. ♠ I wish there was another way.
Such a price to see the dawn.
♠ The birth pangs are nearly finished. ♠ I have loved the earth but cannot stay.