No poem ever written frames your grace;
No sonnet so enshrined by mortal means
Could here do justice to that peerless face—
That masterpiece which mortal words demean;
Here I stand mute, His work speaks to your truth,
Yet still I write, by silent thoughts amazed,
In hope by lines to capture timeless worth
Transmuting celestial light to earthly praise.
A daunting task, still so compelled, I scribe
In prayer some soul might sense my awed delight
And here by reading, thus his soul apprise
Of hidden graces that transcend all sight.
In humbled ink, by lyric lines I laud—
A beauty from the vernissage of God.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.