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.

Singing Pens