Smiling He Comes
Sometimes when night's
Ethereal essence fills the silent air
And moonlight softly drapes her silvery cloak
Of gossamer about the sleeping earth,
Concealing all its scars, my mother-soul,
Filled with nostalgic yearning for that boy
Who left us in the pulsing dawn of youth,
Steps from its chrysalis of earthly flesh
And moves across a star-strung bridge of dreams.
Smiling he comes
Through portals hung with golden tapestry.
I take him gently in my hungry arms,
Caress his boyish face, his curling hair.
My first born son! The marks of death are gone:
The twisted foot is straightened, hands made whole;
The bruised flesh is restored ... No mortal wound
Upon his head ... He tells me of his dreams
And of his joy within the Master's kingdom.
There is no war.
This living son of mine! He is not dead!
For death is but the gateway into life
And happiness in God's own Empery.
Slowly the portals close. My lightened feet
Traverse again my star-strung bridge of dreams;
My soul accepts its temple. Comforted,
I walk all unafraid to meet the dawn.