Worthy is the lamb who was slain,
To receive power and dignity and wisdom.
I am looking across a narrow valley at a flock of sheep, so innocent with no mark of Cain.
They barely move, like white statues, to speech contentedly dumb.
A dog barks, a duck lake bound sings, a distant tractor growls, the wind sighs.
A bumblebee busy about its tasks hovers to the stone’s house cosy crack.
There is a stillness and expectancy all about and no fear-filled cries.
To these creatures there is no past or present, no power or wisdom they need or lack.
Suddenly just before he reached the city there came a light from heaven all around him.
I pray that this light would make us like the lamb content to be still.
We only ask for some small shard of future divinity, some pull from hell’s dark brim.
We do not seek to preach with majestic prose, only our restless pride to kill.
The sheep have not spoken, nor ever will, nor care, nor ever will.
And my mind freed for one instant, now returns to its usual debating, grinding restless mill.