by Gideon Burton
The spectators of miracles divide:
the ones who reason everything away;
the ones in fearful awe who run and hide;
and others who, beholding, sink to pray,
who tell their children, Wait, remember this,
remember on those cold and bitter days,
or when confusion casts its numbing mists,
or sun or moon withholds their warming rays--
that we were present when He showed His face
and raised our feeble spirits from the dead;
that we have known unmeasured tender grace
from what was seen and heard and softly said.
To treasure light, to share its burning peace,
compounds the wonders that have never ceased.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License. Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo:flickr - cayusa