Poetry

By Lisa Bolin Hawkins


Fast Sunday

This Sabbath, I am prism-full of light.
A Spirit-fire projects my facets there:
Mary listening, Martha laboring,
Sarah trembling, Elizabeth rejoicing,
Mary sorrowing, Eve remembering.
All these in me, yet burning only I,
As all our lives are mirrored back and forth
And all lights touch and know their flaming source.
Still gray tomorrow comes, with shameless haste,
And, cumbered by world cares, the fires dim,
To be awakened yet again, again,
Until, enduring, clouded prism-souls,
Now filled with light, find Thy reality—
A sea of glass, an everlasting fire—
Praising Thee.

I Saw You Yesterday

I saw you yesterday, in green.
I thought I’d like to see you there.
I’d dreamed about your silken hair
In flowing tresses, and that smile!
Envisioned that—for just a while—
It smiled for me. Then it was gone.
And as I mourned its passing on,
I cursed the hours till you were near,
And felt at times a touch of fear
That time would that sweet vision mar.
But you were lovelier by far
Than any vision I had seen.
I saw you yesterday, in green.
I saw you yesterday, in white.
I thought I’d like to see you there
Resplendent, free of earthly care
Almost. And what was in your eyes
Revealed a heart so true, so wise
That kings and sages might be awed,
Not knowing you have talked with God;
Not knowing of the life’s plan laid,
The course you’ve charted, vows you’ve made.
And, yes, I dreamed that vision, too.
But nothing like the look of you—
That simple, pure, and holy sight.
I saw you yesterday, in white.
Pray God when from earth’s cares you’ve slept,
When all dear friends have gone to rest
Like swallows going home to nest,
When things unclear have been made plain,
That I shall see you once again
In something green, perhaps, and white.
Though sweet my joy that day of light,
My heart could not be fuller then
Than seeing now, in white and green,
The vision I shall ne’er forget—
That I saw yesterday. And yet
It will, somehow, if vows are kept.
I saw you yesterday, and wept.

[illustration] “Supper at Emmaus,” by Simon Harmon Vedder