Begin in closeup:
A base of polished oakwood, smooth and shining,
Dovetailed joints as tight as when they were first made
With a sharp chisel in a workshop
Redolent of shavings and shellac,
Long ago.
Shining brass pans and chains, butter-yellow,
Speaking of long and careful use,
The love of a craftsman for the tools
Daily familiar and warmed by his hand.
And a pointer, delicate, needle-thin,
Trembling at a breath.
These are goldsmiths’ scales for measuring
The very precious, the very small.
Next, let your gaze pull back to see the whole:
A precision instrument made with love for one purpose.
These scales are like a soul in this:
Made to know the joy of being a creature,
Something made to do one thing superbly well:
To hold, respond, to speak truth,
Fitted to the Maker’s hand.
A thing that by doing its work
-carrying, reflecting, pointing –
Becomes what it is.
But a soul is unlike the scales in this:
The soul grows through carrying, reflecting, pointing;
It changes, warmed by his hand.
A soul lives more deeply and puts out new green
Tendrils, leaves, blossoms.
It is shaped by what it carries
-choosing, affirming, rejecting-
Until it points only to its Creator,
The tremulous needle stilled due Christ.
tRuth 2015
image CC0 MaxPixel
poem prayer silence 