Читать книгу Light in Light - Deborah Gerrish - Страница 14

—after Hugo Simberg’s The Wounded Angel, 1902, oil painting

There are good angels and bad ones. Some dazzle, others bleed

mischief from their eyes. I speak to the ethereal kind yet not the

evil fallen ones. I’m not talking about cupids scrolled on valentine

cards but the genre Billy Graham writes about. The hedges

of angels above beneath behind and beside. Though we are

a little less than the angels, sometimes injured seraphim and

cherubim need our human help. If you should witness one in your

spirit that crash-lands in a haystack in the meadowlands, dangles

from a city bridge, or gathers snowdrops along the wrong road, carry

the crippled, then lift the briefly powerless to the air again.

It could be a fiery dart pierced its legs in battle or principalities tied

back its wings in flight. Or maybe it flew too close to the sun.

Sometimes in the early dawn, I’ve heard the chimes of summer,

I’ve seen an angel rise—

from where its heels dug dust.