All miracles are scandals
and every saint’s a fool
and so we shrink from them
and take refuge in rules
and call our doubts wisdom
and name our habits faith
and when our angel comes to us
we remind him of the facts
that God intends to turn to ash
as the sea splits
and the desert blooms.
But how will anyone know us
if not by our wounds?
And if he takes them from us
then who will we be?
Who is a prisoner
after he’s set free?
And how will we explain
our withered limbs made whole
our blind eyes that now see through things
the words we speak, but do not know?
Give us a magic trick,
but not a miracle.
A magic trick might make us laugh.
A miracle threatens our soul.
But Mary, you stood unafraid
when your angel came to you
and you didn’t whisper a word
about everything you stood to lose.
You only asked to know
the hidden mechanics of grace
and your miracle split history
and makes this world new, every day.
