Seeing the Miracles (Poem)

Perhaps it is in the simple things…

the catch in the throat,

the sliver of light cresting the horizon, 

in the fresh morning dew lending itself

to the growing blooms.

Perhaps the eye catches but a glimpse

of God’s amazing miracle

appearing and disappearing all around

touching our souls, 

igniting and renewing our faith…

perhaps that is what He meant 

when He said, it is the blind leading the blind

for we donned on our pharisee clothings

we play our parts and move along

but the it is all brain work

closing off the heart valves 

staving all emotion 

as we simply go through the motions…

Yet perhaps we’ve miss the mark.

Perhaps we lost sight of His miracles, 

closed our eyes and failed to truly see.

Oh that we may open them once again…

to catch miracles on our fingers

touching the blood coursing through

our veins

and then again ignite our souls…

perhaps this happens in an instant…

or in eighty years…

but dear Lord let these scales fall from 

these blinded eyes again.

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The Country of the blind (A poem by C.S. Lewis)

Hard light bathed them-a whole nation of eyeless men,
Dark bipeds not aware how they were maimed. A long
Process, clearly, a slow curse,
Drained through centuries, left them thus.

At some transitional stage, then, a luckless few,
No doubt, must have had eyes after the up-to-date,
Normal type had achieved snug
Darkness, safe from the guns of heavn;

Whose blind mouths would abuse words that belonged to their
Great-grandsires, unabashed, talking of light in some
Eunuch’d, etiolated,
Fungoid sense, as a symbol of

Abstract thoughts. If a man, one that had eyes, a poor
Misfit, spoke of the grey dawn or the stars or green-
Sloped sea waves, or admired how
Warm tints change in a lady’s cheek,

None complained he had used words from an alien tongue,
None question’d. It was worse. All would agree ‘Of course,’
Came their answer. “We’ve all felt
Just like that.” They were wrong. And he
Knew too much to be clear, could not explain. The words —
Sold, raped flung to the dogs — now could avail no more;
Hence silence. But the mouldwarps,
With glib confidence, easily

Showed how tricks of the phrase, sheer metaphors could set
Fools concocting a myth, taking the worlds for things.
Do you think this a far-fetched
Picture? Go then about among

Men now famous; attempt speech on the truths that once,
Opaque, carved in divine forms, irremovable,
Dear but dear as a mountain-
Mass, stood plain to the inward eye.

The Country of the blind – Poem by CS Lewis

Hard light bathed them-a whole nation of eyeless men,

Dark bipeds not aware how they were maimed. A long

Process, clearly, a slow curse,

Drained through centuries, left them thus.

At some transitional stage, then, a luckless few,

No doubt, must have had eyes after the up-to-date,

Normal type had achieved snug

Darkness, safe from the guns of heavn;

Whose blind mouths would abuse words that belonged to their

Great-grandsires, unabashed, talking of light in some

Eunuch’d, etiolated,

Fungoid sense, as a symbol of

Abstract thoughts. If a man, one that had eyes, a poor

Misfit, spoke of the grey dawn or the stars or green-

Sloped sea waves, or admired how

Warm tints change in a lady’s cheek,

None complained he had used words from an alien tongue,

None question’d. It was worse. All would agree ‘Of course,’

Came their answer. “We’ve all felt

Just like that.” They were wrong. And he

Knew too much to be clear, could not explain. The words —

Sold, raped flung to the dogs — now could avail no more;

Hence silence. But the mouldwarps,

With glib confidence, easily

Showed how tricks of the phrase, sheer metaphors could set

Fools concocting a myth, taking the worlds for things.

Do you think this a far-fetched

Picture? Go then about among

Men now famous; attempt speech on the truths that once,

Opaque, carved in divine forms, irremovable,

Dear but dear as a mountain-

Mass, stood plain to the inward eye.

CS Lewis 

Hard light bathed them-a whole nation of eyeless men,

Dark bipeds not aware how they were maimed. A long

Process, clearly, a slow curse,

Drained through centuries, left them thus.

 

At some transitional stage, then, a luckless few,

No doubt, must have had eyes after the up-to-date,

Normal type had achieved snug

Darkness, safe from the guns of heavn;

 

Whose blind mouths would abuse words that belonged to their

Great-grandsires, unabashed, talking of light in some

Eunuch’d, etiolated,

Fungoid sense, as a symbol of

 

Abstract thoughts. If a man, one that had eyes, a poor

Misfit, spoke of the grey dawn or the stars or green-

Sloped sea waves, or admired how

Warm tints change in a lady’s cheek,

 

None complained he had used words from an alien tongue,

None question’d. It was worse. All would agree ‘Of course,’

Came their answer. “We’ve all felt

Just like that.” They were wrong. And he

  

Knew too much to be clear, could not explain. The words —

Sold, raped flung to the dogs — now could avail no more;

Hence silence. But the mouldwarps,

With glib confidence, easily

 

Showed how tricks of the phrase, sheer metaphors could set

Fools concocting a myth, taking the worlds for things.

Do you think this a far-fetched

Picture? Go then about among

 

Men now famous; attempt speech on the truths that once,

Opaque, carved in divine forms, irremovable,

Dear but dear as a mountain-

Mass, stood plain to the inward eye.

 

CS Lewis

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