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By Jeff Lindsay

Aug 1999

Fractured crystals, molten
Once. Cold now, and clouded,
Carried to this holy peak.
Lacking light, a plea:
Touch these with thy fire.

Not fire - a hand, or part
Stretched out. Nails!
Molten white, his hand
Lights on each stone -
Contact - then fire-filled

And brighter than fire still.
Rivers of living light
Flow from once dead rock:
Our burial in ocean depths
Made clear, bright, a trek

That we can bear, with grace
From hands whose very nails
Give hope. I have seen and know:
This is the hand of the Lord.
And yet more waits to be seen -

What thou wilt reveal thyself unto me?

Comments welcome; email jeff at
Visit his hompage at
Read all his poetry HERE