From poor Mercy.
Woo her no more.
Cry upon her no more.
There is an abrupt moment of silence as the light becomes dim again and Kwan-yin’s face is frozen into serenity. Then the fourth priest sings:
What then are Mercy’s gifts? The rose-red slopes
Of hills ... the secret twisted hands of trees?
Shall not the moon and the stars redeem lost hopes?
What fairer gifts shall Mercy bring than these?
For, in the end, when our beseeching clamor
Dies with our bells; when fear devours our words;