The crowd swirled
Around the shabby preacher,
His robes dusty, much mended,
His sandals worn
By miles on stony roads.
We pushed forwards,
Seeking to breathe his air,
Hear his compelling voice
Speak of hope,
Of justice,
Of God’s unfailing love,
To touch this prophet,
Know him real.
The sick, deformed,
Possessed
Crept closer
Through small ebbs
As the crowd
Flinched away
To avoid defilement.
We pressed closer,
Strengthened by desperation,
By hope of another miracle,
The dream that it could happen
To us.
We mobbed around him,
Shoving and clamouring,
Like beggars
For the last coin.
His quiet voice
Cut short our scramble,
Our pleadings,
Stilled our pawing hands,
Our desperation.
“Who touched me?”
His friend protested,
Someone laughed,
But he insisted.
A ragged woman
Fell before him,
Confessed
Her twelve-year bleeding,
Her foulness,
Her outcast life,
Her clutch at his robe
A final act of hope.
She looked up at him,
Huge-eyed
With astonishment,
Devotion,
Said she was healed,
And wept.
He smiled then,
With inexpressible love,
Love older than stars,
With a child’s spontaneous joy,
With a mother’s tenderness.
“Daughter,
Your faith has healed you.
Go in peace.”
Later, I hobbled home,
Unhealed,
My body unchanged,
But my heart transformed,
My soul overwhelmed
By the preacher’s smile,
Knowing my miracle was harder:
To make that smile,
That moment,
Sustain a lifetime.
SIA 5 iv 2014
Beauty from Chaos 