I do not claim,
Like Rembrandt and Michelangelo
To know the color of his hair,
The shape of his face.
For who can paint
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
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—