On a Dark Night

It seems to count for little
what I’ve heard, what I’ve read
for the mysteries of God are yet left unsaid

In earnest I search the scriptures
and every word, like a thread
by intellect is woven, that light might be shed

But to weave in one fashion seems akin to all others
In this one respect, all threads seem like brothers
that each, in their turn, seem plausible at best
yet far am I from certain in which I may rest

Still, intellect itself
where Grace is concerned
will serve but a little
afore all is unlearned

For the thread which is spoken is not the true thread
The intellect, to all concepts, in Truth must be dead

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