Call of the Bride

Call of the Bride

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Beneath the white silk damask sky

She waits, breathlessly–
Her heart pounding as she gazes

Through an open door in heaven,
Her foot upon the silver sea with mirrored clouds amounding.
Hidden fish graze, silent, as a rose blush

Gently spreads upon His fragrant breath,
Deepening the red glow within the thunderheads.
Horns of light break through from the

Blinding brilliance of His anteroom,
Carrying warmth into the chilly spring.

She dips her satin slipper in, making ripples
That urge out into the vastness with a ever-increasing plea:

"Come quickly for me, my Love".
Wisteria vine shakes free its husky scent,

And the veil that hides the woman’s face blows back,
Revealing tears that flow in rivulets

Along the contours of her cheeks,

Blanched at His thunder.
Her breastbone resonates with fear and trembling

That take her, echo through her, shake her.

She leans against the gnarled oak, guard of the shore,

For generations unspeaking;
And as her reddening ear presses hard against the bark,

She hears its wizened voice–
Deep and groaning like ancient branches in a tempest:

"I am waiting for you."
And in it she hears the cry of the Groom,

The cry of creation, the cry of the unborn,
The cry of the seers, the cry of the martyrs,

The cry of heaven to make all things new.

Then a wail, long and terrible,

Called out from the depths of her being by the cries of the ages,
Swirls with crimson and gold and cobalt and emerald

To stir the four winds of heaven,
As the curtain of her heart is rent in twain

With a sound like the rending of the sky.

The woman falls to the ground weeping into the moss.

The angels watch hushed, awestruck,

Wondering, pondering the cross that the Bride and Groom share.

Fog rolls in from the silver sea,
Luminous, voluminous, redolent with frankincense and myrrh;

Hope rolls in, billows in, envelopes her.
Silence looms for half an hour until flecks of fire

Begin to sparkle down her spine,
Down the tendrils of her hair, down the long length of her legs,

Down her fingers in the moss.

And little streams of fire trickle into the deep green moss,

Across the garden paths, out into the silver sea,

Until the world glitters with the fire

Of her passionate love for her Groom.

Then she rises, slowly at first,

Gracefully stretching up onto toetips,

And commences a winsome dance
In her white linen gown~ fine as gossamer,

Embroidered by unseen wisdoms~

Spinning faster and faster,
Like a whirlwind from Eden,

Until all the winds of the earth and sky

Are pulled into her dance.
A golden glory grows ever brighter

And more magnificent around her,

Her adoration beautifying her
Beyond all the treasures of the world of man.

Transported by pure joy into the very Throneroom of heaven,
She falls at His feet in wonderment and wordless worship.

Then the Bridegroom smiles,

And the smile lingers like a summer sunset.

Ripe figs drop to the earth.
Calves drop, and foals drop,

And fawns drop and lambs drop

As the earth replies in fruitfulness of joy.

The earth yields up all its crops, glorying in the sunshine

Of the Groom’s smile. And the reapers come,
Wielding their mighty sickles,

Gathering up the golden, sun-ripened grain

Into the storehouses of heaven.

Then He takes up His sword,

His magnificent two-edged sword~

Sharper than sharpness~ and splits the sky.
He splits the mountains, and He splits the sea,

And He sunders the heavens in twain.
Stars fall like an autumn rain.

He splits the atoms in rock and air,

Fire consuming all the visible realm.

And His voice– like an orchestra of trumpets,

Like unfathomable waters

Crashing on immeasurable shores,

Like the rumblings of the seven holy thunders,

Like the applause of all the universe–

Cries out to the Bride:

Arise!

*

Karen Gladys Henry, circa 2006

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