by Gideon Burton
The morning of our common rising -- new
again to muscles, organs, breathing, bones,
and all about us those the ages slew
and greater powers raised from sandy loam,
immortal, freed from time's severe demands.
How old am I if wrinkles cannot gauge
my decades? Will grandfathers be as grand
when hobbled into youth's more shallow age?
Perhaps in mercy we will still retain
the aches, the handicaps, the marks of grace
through which we learned to speak a Savior's name,
through which we worked, and wept and ran the race.
Oh, do not wake me young and strong and fresh;
perfecting only works through faulty flesh.
Photo: flickr - HelpAge
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