We are the lithograph of God’s Image –
Each a numbered edition
From the stone cut.
Some copies turn out faint,
Mere brush strokes on heavy matte –
Wisps of the eternal
Then gone too soon.
Others have depth,
And shadowy after-images
Where the artist rolled over and back,
Over and back,
Until satisfied that the ridges and trenches,
angles and curves
Of this bas-relief of God’s Being
Are stamped into paper faithfully.
Some imprints are so deeply etched in skin and bones,
That even entrails and hearts
have been bruised.
These are the saints, the prophets –
The lamed-vavniks –
Who hold up all the world
On their shoulders.
We are the silkscreen of God’s Image –
Our bodies, the bolt of silk;
Our blood, the ink pressed upon it;
Our hardships, the roller
That pushes color through the fabric.
The harder the life
The more the Image comes through!
