Fracture

"'Thus...shall beauty not before conceived be brought into Eä, and evil yet be good to have been.'...'And yet remain evil.'" (Tolkien, Silmarillion 98)

Recently I have been trying to work on more free-verse-ish types of poetry because I am worse at them. This is one of my slightly better efforts. 




We are broken in the least likely of places.
Where we assume ourselves whole,
there the cracks are simply covered.

But light still threads the fractures,
refusing to let loose
the chaos bound by charity
the straining shards held fast
by the hand of the figure.

How beautiful the panes—
translucent,
lit from the far side of life.

But the lines—
the cracks—jagged, wandering,
twisting one way, then another,
disfigure what they hold,

as souls are dehumanized:
innocence torn,
the torn becoming those who tear,
evil wreaked on innocence
by innocents turned men of harm.

And even good men,
burdened by unmeant ruin,
marring souls,
pressing others—unconsciously—
toward destruction with every careless word.

Ah—
the cry to dear, kind God.

Ah—
the crimson ache of every pane.

You hold the human soul.
You alone can make it whole.
The glass is broken, yes,
but artfully so.

You do not cause our pain,
but You redeem it.
Blessedly, You redeem it!
You bought it from us—
at such a price—
and bore it as our sacrifice,
that life might spring from death
and beauty outlast
the final quivering breath.

These lines do not disfigure
but body forth a figure,
a likeness with the appearance of man
yet the radiance of glory. 
We are broken—
but artfully so.

And as I gaze upon this window
—at least I imagine it as such—
(for I am but a pane myself,
and cannot see that much),

I trust that these, the jagged forms,
the whispered prayers and midnight storms,
together shape the face of the All-wise,
His triumphant face and knowing eyes.