Imago Dei


How beautiful to think this dust is formed
—and lovingly is touched, inspired by
the maker of the starry host—in God’s
image. What dread wonder, what pinnacle
to stand upon: From here, the fall is great.
Yet can we lose this virtue? No. But kept,
the image may be dragged to hell; do we,
the marred remains, still fit some grand design?
Can we, God’s signet seal, now bear to stand?
To let the light reveal our sorry state?
And so His purpose is revealed: to shine
His light into the darkest pits, and thus
our fall He worked into His plan. What strength
to be so weak; glory to be so small.
As like the babe in Mary’s womb, as like
the king exalted on the cross, can we
so hope to be? So small and weak, and yet
the cornerstone of all the world. Can we
so be? Into the light and all our sins
reveal as, whipped, our flesh is ripped away.
The world’s a whip, the world’s a cross, and Christ
—the pattern, God, His own image revealed—
reveals this strange blessing, Imago Dei.

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