At Their Table

By earth, by water, by air and fire
by spirit most pure I fling open the door
by word, by gesture, by songs that they inspire
by will most sound I call them forth

Where three roads lead and eight winds part
stands our church beyond time and place
with hooves for feet and flames for heart
around the same fount of power we pace

There is no higher honour than to sup at their table
no greater gift than this chalice we share
the feet that stomp the grave of my own Abel
shall move to the rhythm of a lifelong prayer

Bright Moon... Lover
make this body writhe
black Moon... Mother
with your blood wash my Eye

The wisdom of the dead I raise from the halls beneath
and the radiance of the stars I draw down
I speak the spells of old and echo each future deed
and bind them all in the eternal Now

There is no higher honour than to sup at their table
no greater gift than this chalice we share
the feet that stomp the grave of my own Abel
shall move to the rhythm of a lifelong prayer