by Christy Paige
Her eyes sing brightly from behind her humble frame
The dirty hands emitting a light
Only seen by the purest of eyes.
His pace is slow; he ambles along
He drinks in the darkness and prays silently
For who on this earth could know better
Than one who has seen with his own eyes?
They have been bathed in truth
And sent with one reason
To guide the Fathers children,
To tell them of His Love.
They tuck themselves beneath the lives we discard.
It is we who are foolish enough to mistake them
For those as common as us.
How often, I wonder, do we see them?
And do we ever recognize?
Do we dare to?