Classic Poem

Ere aught began,
Beyond the span
Of sense, the Word
(O priceless hoard!)
Was, which God fashioned in his youth.
O Fatherbreast,
Wherefrom, with zest,
The Word did bloom!
Yet did the womb
Retain the Word in very truth.
Of twain a fount,
Love paramount,
The double troth,
Known unto both,
The ever gentle Spirit flows.
Equal, and none
Can make but one;
One are the three;
Yet what it be
That triple spirit only knows.
The triple crown
Hath deep renown;
Ring without clasp,
No sense can grasp,
It is a depth without a floor,
Is rest, is grace,
Shape, form and space;
The source, the ring,
Of everything;
A point which never moveth more.
To its abode
There is no road;
Curiously
It beareth thee
Into a desert strangely strange.
Is wide, is broad,
Unmeasured road;
The desert has
Nor time nor space,
Its way is wonderfully strange.
That desert plot
No foot hath trod;
Created wit
Ne'er came to it;
It is, and no man knoweth what.
Is there, is here,
Is far, is near,
Is deep, is high,
And none reply
Whether this thing be this or that.
Is light, is pure,
Is most obscure,
Nameless, alone,
It is unknown,
Free both of end and origin.
It standeth dark,
Is bare and stark;
Reveal his face
Who knows its place,
And say what fashion it is in.
Become a child,
Deaf, blind and mild;
Be eye and thought
Reduced to naught,
Self and negation driven back,
Space, time resign,
And every sign,
No leader hath
The narrow path,
So com'st thou to the desert track.
O soul, abroad,
Go in to God;
Sink as a yes
In nothingness,
Sink in unfathomable flood.
I fly from thee,
Thou greetest me;
Self left behind,
If I but find
Thee, O thou good of every good!