I was certain that I knew You
|
At the tender age of twelve
|
You'd so often been described by those
|
Who said they knew You well
|
Dark and rugged in Your thirties
|
With a smile as bright as Your robe
|
|
Every teacher, every preacher
|
With the very best intent
|
Found new ways to hide the mystery
|
Replaced by common sense
|
And to know You was to keep You in my pocket
|
So easy to hold
|
|
I know I can't explain You
|
I would not even try to
|
And yet it's clear that You are here beside me
|
I marvel and I wonder
|
So near and somehow still so far
|
What makes You who You are?
|
|
It is easy to insist
|
On what is packaged and precise
|
And dismiss the clear suspicion
|
That You're bigger than we'd like
|
It is tempting to regard You as familiar
|
In so many ways
|
|
I've tried to draw these lines around You
|
A definition or an absolute
|
But I could not be satisfied with black or white
|
There is so much more
|
There is so much You
|
|
-----------------
|
Who You Are
|
| Nichole Nordeman |
