The leaves that led me down through hell back
have folded on themselves to guide me straight,
with clarity revealing what they lack,
and drawing me to purgatory's gate.
To the brink of law's dominion, law has led,
while barring fast the gates of its high walls.
Within are feasts; the satisfied are fed,
and yet in vain the hungry exile calls.
Young Moses hid amid papyrus reeds;
the Temple shone with Egypt's treasure's bright.
But flesh, not stone, the spirit's temple needs,
so gird me with thy easy yoke and light,
that rooted in thy true word I may stay
when the cleansing wind has blown all leaves away.
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