In the beginning,
“They were naked and not ashamed,”
Until hubris devoured innocence.
Now we hardly know each other,
Son of Adam, daughter of Eve,
We cloak ourselves with fig leaves.
But we cannot hide from Love.
The one who made us in His image Cries, “Where are you?”
And covers us with reflected beauty.
Thus hopeful, we turn to the light
Where curved-in-hearts are unsprung.
Someday, you and I
Will know even as we are known,
Translucent with divinity.
Now we see through a glass darkly,
But then—face to face.
(By Alan Crandall, for Jan on the occasion of our wedding anniversary.)
Pastor of Care