The flesh of Earth was sick today
And did not rise from sleep,
Summer forests drained to gray,
The oceans black and deep
Sleepers did not wake from dreams
Nor flowerings unfold,
Desiccated lay the streams,
Blood and flesh were cold
Who will raise my corpse to life
And cover me with skin?
Who is the surgeon with a knife
That cuts existence in?
Unless one comes to cure the ill
There is no life to come,
To make the streams and oceans fill
With His viaticum
