“Jesus did many other things as well. If every one of them were written down, I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the books that would be written.”

What can a single spot in time, and so far down the line

Assay, purvey, to add to multitude of witnesses

What witlessness to try, to amplify, expend extensive

Broad badge honour centuries have inundated


Hardly a ripple in the Cosmos sparks my arm, my thoughts

Even in worldly terms a nondescript plain server

A dot on no-one’s landscape, outlier, singularity,

A space where some firm substance really ought to be


Hearken unto the titles of The Names of Christ

See Christ in All the Scriptures, armies they go forth

Loud adulations boast on his attendance here

And here, and here, and also there, ‘Old Mole’


Everyway all things his, and we do give Thee but

Of Thine own; then what pledge, what wedding gift to bear,

Sufficient iteration, press out praise in good fit measure

So fills up worthily, so signifies a gift to him?


Lord of a Virgin Birth, a man unblemished, sans compeer,

Unique, unutterably so, (sit down and take a chair,

This wrestled bear may us prolong, I cannot see to square

The enormity of His career throughout my reverie)


Few folk can frame a panegyric eulogy, a puff

In any sense divorced from mordant product placement

Or by a use of suavely figured evidential prose

Perform, provide, a wished-for emblematic honour


And my dry hand is practiced rather less than has finesse

A certain distance from that charismatic vault divine

Contains old Spenser’s, Milton’s, foremost heaven-found signs;

Summa cum Laude


It is my want, my lack, I want to here embellish

Make up for, with a cup which fills to overflowing; poured

Out in my lap, as line by line, my declaration

As tributary flows into a greater main; and destination


Conceive Him, unlike men, in person perfect; eidolon;

Invades the sifted heart; provides it violent company

By raid decides, and so descries, informs the will overcome

Of truth by succour; His troth His proof of tenure


And so I raise this praise as my iota, jot,

My scintilla of approbation, redolent; but not

As such required, still less inspired; vestigial digit put

Amongst a train of pi as parsing out forever

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