Incarnate
by Arielle Walters
He sheds His radiant robe and leaves His throne
For nether spheres. White feet, through cosmic haze,
Tread softly down these aisles He walks alone.
No rainbow-circled seat, no sardine stone
Of glory lure a backward glance, or daze
His soul to leave His radiant robe and throne.
Heaven’s harps are hushed. Gold-gilded wings, long-flown,
Lie folded. And the angels, while they gaze,
Tread softly. Down these aisles He walks alone.
He cares not that His garment, plainly sewn,
Is fringed with dust and weary at the frays,
Or that He shed His robe and left His throne,
For threaded through His vestures, dimly shown,
Shine glimpses of the once unseen. The rays
Tread softly down these aisles. He walks alone.
Rough-clad, we finger warp and woof unknown
To mortal looms, too small to weave the ways
He shed His radiant robe and left His throne.
Tread softly . . . Down these aisles He walks—alone.
A writer, seamstress, and editor, Arielle likes to watch various parts come together to make an appealing whole.
Photography by Kenneth Godoy