Still, Small Voice Of Calm Poem by Bill Grace

Our primordial selves twist skeins
That Twain and Tolstoy have clearly shown to us
That even together we are not so pretty.

Why then the bankruptcy of the Holy?
When astronauts tell of celestial conversions
This seeing of things from afar may be a secret
To unlock a greater power than rocket engines
We have come to trust.

This small voice that whispers in the dark
Comfort of martyrs and guide of saints
That greater deep from which Jesus drew -
A subtle thing - that split his era into two,
A subtle thing this still small voice of calm.