What slim dimensioned art could herald you,
You whose sovereign grace yet knows no bounds?
Whether plumbed by sight or weighed by virtue true,
No bottom there or scale of worth be found.
No sculpture, portrait or fine script borne praise
Could ever mark your poise, nor yet no song
Sung here by angels heralding second days
Might more swell breasts of hearts where you belong.
No hand of man, or still…what hand of God,
Save that which blessed your pilgrimage to earth—
Could frame a work not deemed a grand facade,
All acts there planned full mortified in mirth?
Ethereal in scope, what skill dare read;
Where every eye that stares stays so agreed.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.