From the broken bone of the hill
stripped and left for dead,
like a wrecked skull,
leaps out this bush of blood.

Out of the torn earth’s mouth
comes the old cry of praise.
Still is the song made flesh
though the singer dies –

flesh of the world’s delight,
voice of the world’s desire,
I drink you with my sight
and I am filled with fire.

Out of the very wound
springs up this scarlet breath –
this fountain of hot joy,
this living ghost of death.