Gone is the upturned prayerful face,
Cast in the glow of wonderous grace,
The royal colors are faded dim,
While no one bends to see.
Gone too, the Elders and High Priests,
Towering columns vault not above,
No sacred family kneels amazed,
While blessing hands hover o’erhead.
The Song of Praise is hushed and stilled,
Worn quiet with the rasp of time.
The brushstrokes once so fine and pure,
Are blurred and smudged unclear.
Dulled eyes now barely see the Child,
The head is gray and bare,
The mouth hangs open, no words to speak,
While hands are clasped in reverent prayer.
What once youth viewed from afar,
Is now held close to a worn-out heart.
What wrought the change we see so clear,
In the man with the Babe held so dear?
Simeon’s art speaks who want to hear,
Of truth that has become so clear,
Time beat upon a grey old head,
While Christ came near and touched a soul.
Cast in the glow of wonderous grace,
The royal colors are faded dim,
While no one bends to see.
Gone too, the Elders and High Priests,
Towering columns vault not above,
No sacred family kneels amazed,
While blessing hands hover o’erhead.
The Song of Praise is hushed and stilled,
Worn quiet with the rasp of time.
The brushstrokes once so fine and pure,
Are blurred and smudged unclear.
Dulled eyes now barely see the Child,
The head is gray and bare,
The mouth hangs open, no words to speak,
While hands are clasped in reverent prayer.
What once youth viewed from afar,
Is now held close to a worn-out heart.
What wrought the change we see so clear,
In the man with the Babe held so dear?
Simeon’s art speaks who want to hear,
Of truth that has become so clear,
Time beat upon a grey old head,
While Christ came near and touched a soul.
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