What if it was not our images seen in broken glass,
But our very ourselves who were broken?
Suppose our dalliance with the pieces of our lives
Was not a just a game of images,
But the substance of things ripped from our souls,
As a heart might be ripped from a lover’s chest,
Or a repentant thought snatched from redemption?
Suppose we took account of how in need we are
Of God’s mercy, so that even a devoted skeptic
Would kneel and cry out in desperation,
To find that God did not split hairs,
About who knocked, or how they came to be at the door.