You have felt the passing of the train,
A rush of wind and rumble deep within
No calming change but that of inmost pain,
Born only since man did deep fall in sin;
The whistle sounds far too late to avoid
The stopless terror, wretched engine dark,
Upon your back it rides, its light destroyed
By broken thoughts, man’s mortal trauma stark.
And dust and smoke and soot about you cloud
That morbid fog of wound and broken soul,
To eye and heart a lifeless, hopeless shroud
That mars and burns to leave but naught a hole.
Yet! Fear not, Lite Heart, the end is not now writ;
For Hope with Love upon these tracks does sit.