A Poem: Holy

That you are holy, sitting on a hill,
this we know.

That you are there and still here,
that you have moved and not moved,

altogether holy,
altogether present with us.

That you’re here like the seraph
with coal against our lips, the kiss of life.

That we are there, as the woman at the well
with water running down our chins –

we, who have met the one
who keeps our tongues from thirst,

who need only open our mouths
to know your love.

Yes, the night draws in,
we are alone but not alone.

There you are,
the holy one on the hill,

dipping your head
that we are held in your gaze.

All fire, that we are merely candle wax
melting from the warmth,

and limbs soft in thankful rest.

Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
January 2021

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