Out of the suffering came forth sound,
A tortured song of the soul.
A music the purpose of which was profound,
Containing a prayer, not meant to console,
A prayer sufficient of itself, a hope complete and whole,
Which hung in the air, above the despair, which also hung around.
And yet there was no praise, no glorified God to extol.
Out of the suffering came forth sound,
Out of the music appeared a wound,
Which could not be healed and still had control
Of the man who conveyed it as pain as he found:
A tortured song of the soul,
A music whose only role
Was to spell out exactly, not trick or confound,
To say what was true and let truth take its toll,
A music the purpose of which was profound,
A music of death and of blood soaked ground
And yet intelligent. A glimpse through a keyhole,
Into a mind which did not flinch, but sought to expound,
Containing a prayer, not meant to console,
Or offer false glimpses of future parole.
A music relentless and seeming to hound
The listener, wear him down, yet condole,
Truth and beauty wrought, where yet they almost drowned:
Out of the suffering came forth sound.
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