I will draw water from my own well.
The cistern that I carved in the wilderness
Will sustain me in times of exile.
Oh, I may have forged the place of gathering,
But the waters flow from the mysteries
And run freely through the hands of God.
They pour out upon my arid fields
Like balm upon my weary feet.
Seeds sprout and bloom and fruit in a day.
Among this out of time harvest I wander
Transformed by an idea too great for me.
Where the knower the knowledge and the known are one.