Jesus, the Icon

The river whispers under its breath, soft  

syllables of God, fluent and sure.  

Leaves applaud as the wind explains truth,  

each one nodding, swayed by its touch.  

Philosophers point to the stars, mapping  

meaning in constellations, tracing divine  

geometry. Their voices spill like ink—  

logical, precise, but still incomplete.  

Meanwhile, artists light candles in shadowed  

rooms. Their brushes dip into gold, lifting  

him towards color, framing his kindness  

between subtle strokes of eternity’s edge.  

Saints live barefoot on sharp stones, an icon  

of faith walking beside silence, their hands  

folded around prayers that bloom, radiant  

and fragile as morning descending in mist.  

Yet Jesus—walking, teaching, breaking bread—  

is the burning center. The breathed Word,  

the letter alive, God’s face unveiled, his  

divine reach clearest in the human touch.