In every good thing chaos rears its head,
Through you my turmoil springs. Oh wash my face,
That I may learn to see your truth, and raise
My quaking soul awake within its bed.
The bubbling brook of troubles will not fade,
And how scout we its waters’ falling-place?
Each babbling voice that murmurs where it stays
Is telling us where footsteps should be laid.
We cross this spring on slippery sin.
But even as you take my hand I fall,
And with the rushing questions, water where I’ve been.
My drownèd ears hear not of reason’s call—
While chaos laughs to see my panicked fight
Redress the river of my drowned delight.