In the knot of a tree or the wisp of a cloud,
In the life of the morn, or the quiescent
Is the face of a saint, or the Virgin
Should the eye of the seer devise
But the skeptic
is lost as the Prodigal Son
When by chance he perceives a façade
in the sky
And is captive
the bars of retaliation
as truth, by-and-by!
And in much the same way as our Luke
had once told,
returns to the host of his school,
And the skeptics
forget that they knew the kobold
Who affiliates with such a fine band of fools.
And eventually all of the skeptics
ism or the faith in a Lord,
And forget, they might quick
, of the passionless throng
That they were in the sardonic
times of before.
Not the tree nor the cloud is directly of God,
Nor His Son
, nor His Cross
, nor a prophet or priest,
But that nature
is here might just be a faint nod
To the fact that the Love of this world is a feast.