Godhead from our Clay

What sudden arrow from the bow of God

Has pierced so deep this dense unknowing breast,

What fire torched the fortress of the heart

And forced the doors of soul ajar and blessed

As might an ancient tree whose kindly boughs

Protect and shelter give and nourishment,

With rain of Grace this parched and dormant soil

That little understood divine intent

Yet moved to rhythms native to higher spheres

While outwardly engrossed in matter's play,

To storm the seas and sail to eastern shores

And wake to the sun of a near yet distant day

When all the masks are torn, and truth revealed.

The divinising substance here at play,

At work to mould the supramental man

Sculpts the godhead from our mortal clay.