Darkness, over the face of the beggar.
A night without end. Cloaking. Nameless. Faceless.
His sight missing, and missed.
Time is short: a true night is coming,
A night after day, when no-one,
Even the sighted, can work.

But now, right now, comes dawn.
The first morning breaks, the shadows flee
The light of the world, shining on him, on all,
Without favour or distinction.
And God saw that the light
Was good.

A saving wash,
Of mud in the pool
Not as a removal of dirt from the body
Nor of his or his parents’ sin
(As if that were relevant)
But as an appeal to God
For a clean conscience

A declaration that the past is past
It is there, in memory, in fact,
But powerless as Christ ‘s wounds
Today, speaking only
Of the works of God displayed
In him.

Israel limped, but here the blessed one
He flies, a winged creature, of the heavens
Freed from exile’s stall
Receiving back his stolen sight, his name
And knew the nature and the name
Of him he saw: ’twas Love.

So who is blind? The sinners
Who may yet be given back their moral eyes,
Or we who clearly see
Our right from others’ wrong, and think
It matters, when the Dayspring from On High
Is here?

And yet we, even we, are the venue
Of new creation:
The struggled birth in us
Of a new world: our view restored
Of what the world is and may become,
And why and how that becoming
Might begin.


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