The dove descending breaks the air
With flame of incandescent terror
Of which the tongues declare
The one discharge from sin and error
The only hope, or else despair
Lies in the choice of pyre of pyre
To be redeemed from fire by fire.
Who then devised the torment? Love.
Love is the unfamiliar Name
Love is the unfamiliar Name
Behind the hands that wove
The intolerable shirt of flame
Which human power cannot remove
We only live, only suspire
Consumed by either fire or fire
"Little Gidding"-- T.S. Eliot
It's his Pentecost poem. Well, Pentecost is nearly over, I suppose, although I think you can celebrate any holiday in the church year anytime you like. I listen to my religious Christmas Pandora station year-round. And every time we recall Jesus' saving death and resurrection, we celebrate Good Friday and Easter
anew. Sundays themselves are said to be little Easters.
This poem points to the terror of Pentecost, something that gets glossed over by our calm, sleepy worship. The Holy Spirit "breaks" the air in "terror." Our ultimate fate depends upon the Holy Spirit-- our "only hope," demanding we choose "fire" or fire." Pentecost confronts us with a choice. Which fire do we choose-- the flames of the Spirit or the flames of hell? Either way, we are ultimately consumed.
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