It takes a death, often
to bring us down to earth,
to the dove's heart a blow,
an arrow bestirring the dust,
a crucifixion of some sort,
whether on rough timbers
or the rotting beams of old bones,
grave dust silhouetting
our common little crucifixes
built humbly upon the rickety bridges
of nothingness but also revealing
the genuinely endearing
human qualities of valor and gallantry -
for how else may God be brave
but through us? Clearing the air
long enough to glimpse: Everyone
continuously reaching for God, for love,
for the above ground truth of who we are.
O child of God, there's nothing to seek;
nothing to find but the hidden One.
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