Not a miracle, but the lack of one,
Roiled the tongues on the plain of Babylon.
Not decree, but repeal, sowed confusion
To the rebels, by the fiat withdrawn.
Nor was Pentecost a special wonder,
But a last parable for the simple;
Grace does not increase when split asunder;
One, or legion, is the same miracle.
We grunt in our throat, we whistle and hiss,
Flapping semaphore tongues like flags in sign;
Somehow mind, truth and love cross the abyss,
Somehow remote sealed worlds touch and combine.
Though I do it now, it cannot be done;
We cannot speak a thousand tongues... or one.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I agree with you...Grace does not increase when split asunder. It was said that even if we speak in tongues of men or angels, if we dont have love..it will become just a tinkling cymbal. Nicely written poem on complicated subject.