As torrents burst their dams and overrun

their estuaries in a flood, he broke

upon the elders of the tribe for one

last time. That was the way that Joshua spoke.

Now they were stunned who'd thought to laugh or mock;

they held their hearts and hands, they were so struck.

His mouth made thirty battles roar, whose shock

was thunder, which that mouth now undertook.

And thousands, once again, were filled with wonder,

the way they were that day at Jericho,

though now the trumpets filled him with their thunder,

until those lives like walls were trembling so

that all were writhing with what fear had done.

Now overwhelmed and helpless, they recalled:

how haughty he had been at Gibeon,

to cry out to the sun, commanding, “Halt!”;

how God had gone out like a slave, to cringe

and hold the sun until his hands were aching and

it burned on killers living for revenge —

because just one had willed the sun to stand.

This was that man, this ancient figure whom

they thought now drained of any force or sense:

one hundred-ten, his years — a prison tomb.

And then he stood and crashed down on their tents.

Like hail on stalks, he hammered them: “Your vow

to God? Well, hundreds wait, so choose a god!

But when you do, the Lord will raise his rod.

Yes, choose — and He will smash you anyhow.”

With matchless arrogance: “Both I and mine

are wed to Him alone.” They cried aloud

at what he'd said. “Help us! Send us a sign

to strengthen us to make this heavy choice.”

As if he'd spoke no word in eons, though,

he climbed his mountain and they watched him go.

It was the last they ever heard his voice.

Der Auszug des verlorenen Sohnes

Nun fortzugehn von alledem Verworrnen,

das unser ist und uns doch nicht gehört,

das, wie das Wasser in den alten Bornen,

uns zitternd spiegelt und das Bild zerstört;

von allem diesen, das sich wie mit Dornen

noch einmal an uns anhängt — fortzugehn