The death of self , the emptiness, the loss
Make a space where new works may be born
Like the dying of Lord Jesus on his Cross
The more the loss, the more space dispossessed,
The more may be the harvest of the corn
The death of self , the emptiness, the loss
The creative must most freely their wish toss
Though pain like this is hard to make welcome
Like the dying of Lord Jesus on his Cross~
In the soul, the sharp thorn is embraced
God himself from poor hearts has been torn
The death of self , the emptiness, the loss
The good, the holy, even love’s defaced
As we wander in the wastelands all forlorn,
Feel the death of Jesus on his Cross
Absolute,we lose our wealth and home.
In spaces deep as hell new life is born
By the death of self , the emptiness, the loss
The weeping of Lord Jesus on his Cross
