The Benediction Of Christ Poem by Richard John

Like a great, silver wolf-hound,
With a presence so hallowing,
A conscience so apparent,
Capped by wispy, thinning hair,
Twinned by eyes so grey and ghastly,
Such mystique and magniloquence.
His very skin exudes a jovial gleam,
His face, a wrinkled mass of worn and jaded flesh,
Still pregnant with an unpretentious fair;
an essence of which every man should have.
Haloed and chaste, must such a man be,
That his celestial wings are obscured to,
Our kind - carnal and unrefined.
You cannot deny or be of any doubt that,
He is most worthy-onto him is gratitude obligated.
Do you know of whom I speak?
He is someone to whom,
I have spoken oft and of late,
And someone to whom I owe my existence.
We confer each passing day-
You must have seen he of whom I speak?
Some of you may even confess to loving him,
Whilst others seem to repute his being.
Despite, if seeing is believing,
Then he is very much real to me
The person of whom I speak with confidence-
Theoretical as it may be,
He is not spared my illimitable love.
For we will meet when I die,
Will that be the last I see his face?
Will faith bid we part ways?
None can know.
Yet, until you inspire your last breath,
And expire the last of your life,
Learn to love that which dwells within,
And the façade of your being facing outwards,
As I have learnt from he,
Of whom I constantly speak.
Notwithstanding how wise,
Beautiful or unfearful;
It matters not whether we have strength,
Or a dearth thereof.
We all are potentially perfect beings.
Each one, boys and girls alike,
Man or woman,
As irrefutable as the ground on which you stand,
And the air which you breathe.
We are Christ-like.