Danse Macabre

The day of wrath, the day of doom
their graves will open wide,
and I will gather them for you
the myriads who have died,

as once I gathered every one
in ever grasping hands
who wheeled beneath the moon and sun
and took them from the dance.

That none should have still more to mourn,
I bid their music cease;
the old, the young, the yet-unborn
I gather into peace.

And even you: I stilled your tongue
and laid you down to rest,
but ever since, my Lord, you've sung
the music I love best.

That day I'll lay my sickle down
that cut their brittle stalks
and take my fiddle up to sound
a new and endless waltz.

Then all the sleepers will awake
to dance in triple time;
you will take each hand you made
and reel in perfect rhyme

where cherubim like mirror-balls
revolve above your throne.
Rhythm stronger than any pulse
will rattle in their bones.

And I will cast aside my cloak
as you cast off the night
to tread the steps your wisdom spoke
there in your endless light.