My reflection in the nighttime glass
Is as an image in a pane of a passing subway.
An outline, a faint ghost of a face
Present but not really there,
And beyond lies the outside world.
I am but a shadow,
A small grain of dust being blown
On the winds of history,
Carried by God himself.
His breath is full of a thousand
Holy words,
Sprung from the lips of a thousand
Holy kisses.
I am not alone He tells me.
I have fathers and mothers,
Martyrs and saints,
Radicals and revolutionaries
Speaking to me from the stained glass of antiquity,
Windows within the Bride of Christ
Revealing bright and holy images of the Unseen,
The golden light from purest heaven
Colored with all the shades of our bleeding humanity.
We are reflections of our Father,
Images of the On High.
But you see, this On High we follow
Came to us as the Down Low,
As the Servant of all.
And so, my brothers and sisters,
We truly are the reflections in the glass;
For the endless world beyond,
We are its servants.
We will pass into the deep of the blue-black night
For we are merely ashes and dust,
But I pray these traces of our lives would fall and cover
This world in love.
Upon the shoes of the wandering and discontented,
May we fall.
Upon the concrete jungles of deadly civilization,
May we fall.
Upon the leaves of the righteous
And the grasses of the lowly,
May we fall.
And one day, may the glass that stands
Between the world and the Word,
Between the many and the One,
May that glass be shattered
And broken straight through with love.
And where before was visible only a reflection,
Mere shadows and figures seen but dimly,
On that day, may the God of peace
Shine forth instead.
