“Advent” by Sarah Klassen
(source: Rowan Williams' A Century of Poetry)

We are waiting (again) for the One
who has already come
and gone, leaving us
bereaved.

One waiting in the wings
for the cue - political, apocalyptic
or dramatic - to step into view,
descend,

be finally revealed
to the bewildered crowd -
complicit or without guile.
And to a remnant, impatient

for the curtain to rise on some
anticipated vindication. As if
flamboyant entry to a final act
will finally untangle everything:

a flawless denouement. As if
(if you’re not left behind)
a book will open up,
page after blinding page.

A prophet’s alleged to have said:
we cannot believe in one for whom -
for reasons philosophical,
emotional or rational -

we do not
(cannot,
will not any longer)
wait.