We come
and the angels are clearing the road,
for we come bearing treasure.
We come with bare feet and hands
hardly aware of what it is we carry.
Vessels of clay
with our holy consignment.
Re-dignified,
and exhorted to raise our heads,
we breathe
and feel our ribs,
temple of the living Spirit
expand to give room.
We come
and carry ourselves
with a different carriage.
Part dust, and part bearers
of the divine eternal spark.
We remember of who we are made,
to whom we belong.
Whom we hold,
this holiness encased in skin.
Our body even,
a thing of wonder and awe.
In its clay,
and its brokenness,
for we carry home the temple
of the Lord.
Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
March 2019
Living Tree Poetry 