No sonnet read or written frames your grace,
No tribute yet enshrined by mortal means
Could yet do justice to that peerless face,
Proud work of God, which paltry praise demeans;
Here I praise not, His work speaks to rare birth,
Yet still I write and so myself amaze
At poor attempt to chronicle a worth
That stands beyond the grasp of earthly ways.
Humbled quite, yet still compelled to scribe
So some soul hence might share in awed delight
And in this verse there reading, so divine
That essence that exists beyond pure sight.
What simple man so blessed would hold his sum
On seeing timeless beauty, nary one.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.