by Dean F. Wilson
The Hebrew tongue, the mouth of fire,
The flame of letters woke from slumber.
Alchemy never knew a better host,
No greater secret than this holy ghost:
It is the book, the story, number,
We call it sapir, Hebrew’s sapphire.
Radiance is a colour and a state
That no diamond can ever imitate;
But Atziluth will know it as its own,
For there the diamond is the crown and throne.
Mother, double, simple, tell me
Where you found the House of Beth;
Did you always know the Tree?
Can you grant release from death?
I hear about your sacred mystery
And all the Hebrew tongue’s fair history:
The awe of Aleph, God’s great breath,
The law of Yod, the Hand of He
That draws the veils to hidden Seth
Who dwells in Binah’s unseen sea.
Two and twenty portals, gateways,
Paths to travel, doors to enter.
Silent vowels set words ablaze
When at the start, end, or centre.
Who would know this wordic maze
Would be so fun to get so lost in?
There are no words to speak the praise
With which I hold this Tongue within.
The Letters are a source of Hidden Fire
That weft and waft within a grammar’s frame;
Lofty are the Words sung by the Choir
That prance on tongues as dancing sparks of flame.
The Angels bow in awe; they too admire
The captured spark of Fire made swiftly tame.
And I do stoop ‘fore that which I aspire,
Eyes averted, I make my soul’s proclaim:
“I am the product of my Heart’s desire;
I am the Sacred Utterance of my Name!”