O sumigaw ako sa Panginoon sa aking pagdurusa!
At sinagot Niya
Umiyak ako mula sa kalaliman ng Kamatayan;
Pinakinggan Mo ako
Sapagkat inihagis Mo ako sa kalalim-laliman,
Sa tiyan mismo ng karagatan,
Linamon ako ng mga agos ng tubig,
At bumuhos sa akin ang Iyong magkakasunod na alon
Kaya sabi ko sa sarili, "pinalayas na ako mula sa Iyong piling
Ngunit kahit na, balang araw matatamo ko pa rin ang Iyong Kinaroroonan"

Nalunod ako sa punto ng paghihingalo,
Kinain ako ng malawak na dagat,
Pinuluputan din ang ulo ko ng mga basang halaman.
Lumubog ako sa ugat ng mga bundok,
At pinalibutan ng mga rehas ng daigdig,
Ngunit hinila mo ang buhay ko mula sa kawalan, O aking Diyos.

Habang ako'y nalalanta na,
Pilit inalala ko ang Panginoon,
At lumutang Sayo ang dalangin ko,
Umihip sa loob ng Iyong templo.

Ang mga nakikihalubilo sa mga istatuwang bato
Ay tinalikuran na ang kanilang katapatan.
Ngunit mag-aalay ako Sayo lamang
Ng mga awit ng pasasalamat
At tutuparin ko ang aking pinangako.
Ang Kaligtasan ay mula sa Panginoon lang.

One would perhaps prefer a more tranquil religion, where the grass sways gently in the wind, and flowers softly bloom, and butterflies float in warm colors. Where there is of course, a sacred silence, and the peace of inner vision: of eyes closed beholding the radiance of an everlasting truth. It is the chest that breathes in deeply, and the body that breathes out the body, and a meditating that needs no mediating, in the echoing spaces of unthought. It is the pink petal that slowly glides in its descent, like a careful caressing of the hand, over the gentle, slender wings of a swan. And when the petal sweetly lands you have finally become One.

Yes, one would perhaps prefer a tranquil religion, where the world is left behind, and everything can be left unsaid, and we can take to the golden heaven before the world's terrible end. But what then? In this world where a cry shrieks through summer air, first faintly heard in the distance, maybe of a child in the throes of another beating, or of a woman being forced to give herself in. Followed by cries of uncontrollable rage, overpowering the whimpers of one cowering victim. And closer and closer it gets, this invisible whirlwind in the grass, these brutal ripples in the smooth lake. Building up into a hurricane of a thousand confessions of shame, until it finally smothers you with its thick presence, and you have to open your eyes for light, and your unspeaking mouth to breathe.

And when you can see and breathe no longer you say: I would have preferred a tranquil religion, but what I need now is one which echoes a more frightening cry to a world wracking in pain. And no, I cannot lie, that I have severely wanted to be flawless and divine, but in my pretending I had only stifled my own confessions of sin. Yet this is me now! Shouting thickly into the noise, letting all my filth fly freely into the wind! And who will be there to make this sordid storm stand still? It is in this degenerate world of “peace, peace, when there is no peace” that I have been cast away like an unborn child. Into a dirty city where people urinate in the streets, and the dogs sift through the garbage, and where my soul scrapes the ground. Tremble with me! Tremble with me! For we utter the truth which must wake the sleeping into deadness, and which the living shall always resent. That this world is a shuddering nuisance until something much more beautiful is broken and spent. And that is why in the distance we hear someone crying: “Eloi Eloi Lema Sabachtani!”

One would perhaps wish for a mighty religion, sweating under the blazing sun, making you heave in your breast, and bidding you swing the sword in your hand. The metallic crash of shields and armor on the plain, and the banner of triumph flapping in the wind. And far in the distant cliff red-robed magicians casting their spells, performing secret rituals and gestures of an ancient age. And from the heavens above heavy balls of spectacular light descend down to the earth, while mountains shake, and enemies' hearts tremble. And there you would be, in your knightly glory, with your right foot stepping on the neck of the slain, letting out your primal cry of war and courage, the dispenser of this new world's judgment.

Yes, one would perhaps wish for this mighty religion, that conquers even before the real Conqueror has come, repeating the mistakes of a hundred emperors past, who have built their legacies on the sand. And great men have come and gone, built altars for themselves, and spilled the blood of the weak, until they themselves withered and died. Yes, while somewhere outside the palace, in a thatched house, we faintly hear a soft baby's cry. Until gently stroked by his mother's tender hand, saying shush now, dear baby, everything will be fine, and in just a little while the pleasant sun will rise. And in the midst of the ruins of men, and the stone pillars that have fallen, there lies the newborn with his pink and soft cheeks, and a mother singing her only treasure to sleep.

Yes, you would have wished for a mighty religion, but the mighty have fallen and keep on falling. Yes and the knowledge of men have increased beyond understanding, and this power is too intoxicating to let go. But what then? In the pride that bursts the chest open, the worm only multiplies and enters in. And I would rather have been like the little child, snuggling into my mother's warm breast, saying keep me, care for me, for this world is too scary for all that I can see. Oh, let me rather take your hand and lead me, as we journey beyond this world into there where my true father dwells, where I can open my eyes wide in wonder at the wolf and the lamb, the leopard and the calf, dancing and clapping with their pawed and hoofed hands, marching in happy procession, laughing at the whole world of the gray-haired and gone. And imagine the ridiculous parade we will make! As the dove blushes and kisses the snake! And the giggles spread to the other children, while we form our long and playful train! Oh, why didn't I know that this world was full of such humor, when the unattractive man brushed them aside and said "Let the little children come unto Me."

When philosophy has lost its color, then you need to turn your gaze elsewhere, to where the sunlit fields bend in the wind, and where the wings of wild birds glide in the breeze. There must be something more to truth than suffocating in technicalities, in high-sounding words that click and clank, and writing impressive abstracts. There must be something more than the difference between one or two ranks, for several hundred pesos additional pay, or the difference between the better office with a view or the delayed upgrade of a computer that can't even print. There must be something more than paper stapled on paper, evidence to show that you know, when no one really cares, and it all ends up stacked forgotten in a pile.

And in this sorry tradition you open a text and it's like smothering yourself in the dust of several years going and gone to waste. And you feel you can't type another sentence, oh the sorry state of another graduate requirement. What's the use? What's the use? When we merely play pretend and professional games of pretending professionalism.

Tell me there, in the sterility, that we are really after beauty, after something that this coming kingdom shall be, when this beautiful mess is scraped off the face of the earth. Yes, when Wisdom embodied becomes a golden, glowing temple, rumors heard of from the distance, for which we shall be privileged to embark our journey. And let our fleeting life be a pilgrimage, as we devout and faithful, take our thick robes and our wooden staffs, to cross the great forests of the east, and pass through the narrow roads in the warm rock, and lunge waist-deep through the strong rivers, seeking this ancient glory.

And let there be the song of serenity, with the curving tones of high-peaked cliffs and hidden ponds, and with the stopping chants of a thousand-year land. And let there be peace wafting through the limestone hills, and the voice of sacred creatures passing in the mist.

And let there be danger too, and struggle, as we trudge wearily through the deep mud and rain, and make our shelter in the caves. Where bandits roam between the hanging bridges, and also great-clawed tigers in the dense thicket. But throughout the night we will sing our sunlight-sparkling hymns round the fire, until we safely reach that place where an ancient glory dwells.

Oh, so that one day the world will be recreated, and nothing that is will be remembered or called to mind, there will be new stories, and new legends, and please God, a new language, that will inscribe the history of our seeking. And you will read of me, yes, perhaps, it will be inscribed on a stone now covered with vines, hidden in the foliage, covered up with leaves. How the obscure one left his village with his trusted companions, to walk far, far, to the place where the ancient glory dwells.