We like miracles because they are now,
Not because they are from God.
We use God’s love because it serves us well,
Forgetting that without it, we would be dead.
We watch our loved ones sleep
And pray to God they do his will
And then grow afraid of his will.
There lacks congruence in what we believe and think we know in our heart and mind,
And in what we perceive with our senses.
But the sharp pain beneath the left breast
Reminds us of when we denied our savior:
The cock crows inside the chest.
The ones of the world praise us for our strong will
While the otherworldly wisely keep silent.
Only now, decades and lifetimes later
Do we have ears to hear
Their silent prayers.
©2014, Amaya Engleking