Mystery, After Emily Dickinson’s Untitled 271

Soberly do I realize—
With wonder—what it means—
To wear the Mystery of God—
Amongst tangible things.

Impressed in every atom—
Icon yet unperceived—
Banished from the garden—Imago—
Our persons will not leave.

The Crucifixion knows the crux—
That paints us yet anew—
Divinity that condescends—
To suffering long due.

Where Dei and human meet—
There—is Mystery—
Thus all of incarnation holds—
No smallness yet for me.

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