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This poem is taken from PN Review 116, Volume 23 Number 6, July - August 1997.

Three Poems Thomas Kinsella


Father,
bent above Thyself,
reflecting on Thine incomprehensible image,
not yet perfect.
Lost in the work.

Grant us recompense for our persistence;
who are but flesh, knowing
that there were darker times
but never lighter,
that it is possible
to grasp completely and remain incapable.

And He spoke so that I heard His words
not in the sound of thunder
or in the voice of angels
or in similitudes
but bodily, with a palpable tongue
...


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