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Him by Ellen Johns © 2004 Him No documents inscribed to mark His birth. No buried bones decayed beneath our earth. No DNA to scrutinise or scan, genetic profile of this living man. No labyrinth of lines on digits dipped, in inky fluid, staining finger tips. No records found depicting dental health, nor tax returns assessing personal wealth. No portrait nor a profile roughly etched, no picture of this man was ever sketched. No film or footage of His living years. No wife to share the burdens or the tears. No keepsakes or creations that He made, have ever been discovered or displayed. No audio recordings ever there, the voice that caused a heathen's heart to stir. Such a fame no other man has matched. A multimillion seller still dispatched. The symbol of His death in jewels shine A simple cross that shamed One so divine. He is the landlord of each holy place, all visitors He'll lovingly embrace. His name abused in valour and in vain, but whispered by the lonely and in pain. The only being blessed with pure perfection, should be the focus of our hearts' affection. |