I do not claim,

Like Rembrandt and Michelangelo

To know the color of his hair,

The shape of his face.

For who can paint

A voice

That can softly echo through the centuries

And hold me—

As it did the windswept, dirty crowds—

With overwhelming peace?

Who can chisel in marble or shape in clay

Eyes

That pierce a soul

Cleanse it with one burning took

And radiate enough love for a whole world?

I’ve never heard that voice.

I do not know the color of those eyes.

And yet, each night,

I close my eyes in prayer—

And see.