The Holy Robe

 

No, nothing can return that memory

so lost amidst life’s quilted patchwork, time,

which ever tearing-mending covers me

like clouds that blanket earth in this harsh clime.

Yet feelings pierce, then leave the tattered weave,

arousing empty thoughts of what was there,

that grate in aching silence while I grieve

the loss, the haunting echoes in the air

of the unseen coat of many colors

rent with red. The hymn, The Pearl,

the shining ante-mortal light covers

my triune half human mind whirl.

 

Old fabric rends as lilting grace distills

a new bright-weave garment from verdant hills.