Sonnet III
A POEM
O Lord, what notion of hyperbole.
What willed and wild imagining was born
When Adam, hearing, woke in Eden’s morn?
For neither art Thou this, but this is Thee,
A spirit, soul, and body: one from three;
Though some in mortal bones see grief and scorn
I see the brittle frame You did adorn
With breath, You quickened mortal trinity;
The mirror of our making might be dark
But the image of the mystery
You told Reflects the light of knowledge in Your name
Enkindled in this self, Your infant spark;
For thus Your Word is given body’s mold
And body’s bones, like wood, to feed the flame.
