Poem December 25, 1989 Issue

To God's messengers

Sandine Wade

Our lives are often lit by the lamps
Of other people's kindness,
So when hope grows dim
They kindle it afresh:
Like warm, shaded lamps,
Afloat in the dark pool
Of an uncurtained room,
They beckon us homeward.

There are no rolls of honor
You'll find their names on,
No bugle call heralds
Their passing or triumphs.

Disaster often sought to stamp
Their gentle spirit in the dust,
And ground their fondest hopes,
And yet, like herbs,
Which when crushed between the fingers
Give off their sweetest fragrance,
They refused assent to bitterness,
They remained unselfed,
Unsullied by the world;
Their true Christ nature forever intact,
Immaculate.

Sandine Wade

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