by Patience Worth
Christ! Man! Dusts!
Yet upon the day that He hath spoken
Hangeth the hope of eons that proceed!
Christ! Man! Flesh!
The mouthing of men hath ne'er worn the stone.
The waters of time have licked against it,
And it standeth in the wilderness
Of man's chaos-firm.
Christ! God! That new power, the power
Which is created at each dawning.
Christ! God! Lo, the flesh has crumbled,
And the stone remaineth-
The unbreakable record of His utterance.
Man's word sprayeth against the stone as sand,
And lo, falleth as dust beside it-
And yet it remaineth!
I say me, even so be all truth.
Man may cunningly blow the dust
Of his utterance against it,
But I say it remaineth. Oh, there is nothing
In a pithy utterance which may do aught
Save tickle the stone of "Truth."
I am of a stuff which man may not
Lay his hands upon. I am of a substance
Which buildeth up the thing that be-thee.
For I say me that man's flesh be naught!
And the man. thou callest brother is neither
Flesh nor feast. Nay, he be spirit,
And his utterance is his spirit's raiment.
So it be that thou hast more of me,
Than thou hast of thy very brother!
I am before thee in a pettiskirt of words.
Yea, I do trip me a measure before thee.
And I say, look upon the stuff
Of my raiment-and deny me!
Last updated January 14, 2019