A hand in my soul can reach out and touch Jerusalem
as my other hand tastes the beauty of the Rhine.
And my bare foot can stand upon the holy ashes of rain—each drop a
fallen Phoenix—that sang out from the fire of union
The hills, the valleys, the beasts, the vineyards, the sacred meadows
on our earth and body—they shall pass and ascend as all form does,
tiring of the space within a cage;
for all crowds the soul but the infinite. Ascenders to God we are.
Look though how we enrich this planet with our melting organic
shadows, wondrous shadows are all but He.
What a womb God has—what wild love He must have made to
Himself for days and days without stopping
to have given birth to all you can imagine, and to all you cannot conceive.
Draw a circle around the frontiers of space, barely can God fit a
All language has taken an oath to fail to describe Him;
any attempt to do so is the height of arrogance and will
always declare some kind of war:
the inner ones that undermine our strength, and the outer conflicts
that maim red.
I cried out one night in the madness of separation from love,
in the madness of doing, of trying to add to the Perfect;
for Perfect is All.
The awakened heart is like a luminous sphere—just giving without
thought to any who may come close or gaze at it.
The soul becomes blessedly lost to all
but its own holy
When we cannot be who we are our divine senses become mute,
mute and sick from the insanity of judging
what He made Immaculate.
Who must God have made love to in order to have given birth to all this sound,
to this sacred spectrum of color, scents, and music from the
wind’s body and existence’s plea for mercy—that
plea for the real mercy, unbearable joy?
Once we had four legs and tails so useful to balance our raid into
heaven, and I found them again.
I am a swimming galaxy tonight. Angels prowl around me
hoping I will toss them a fresh piece of light—
here dears, here, my sack is full.
The universe rents space from me, and oceans are drawn
from my well. How can that be?
For I can touch Jerusalem while my other hand tastes
the beauty of the
Yes, I can kiss Jerusalem while my mouth
tastes the wonders of
the Rhine. ~Meister Eckhart
Carl Jung across the web:
Red Book: https://www.facebook.com/groups/792124710867966/