I dry up like grass for your glory, O Holy Trinity.
Yesterday on the hill I saw a lofty spruce that had been struck by lightning. There remained only a white, broken stump, its branches broken to splinters, scattered about. It stood in wonder over what had happened. The whiteness of the stump reflected with light all around. A tree laid bare.
Is this how You lay bare a soul, when You want to engulf it with Your light, when you wish to brighten it lighter than snow?
The robes of empty pride are scattered about, the whitened heart remains. The tree will no longer live its own life; it has dried up from your lightning. And yet people stop and gaze with wonder at Your might. Vox Tonitrus Magni (The Voice of Great Thunder). This tree laid bare has become an apostle of your might. It too voices its Gloria Patri.
I am not a spruce, only grass that longs to wither for your glory.