It is finished.
Finished?
Is it?
I don't think so,
Not until the funny little woman on the Friday bus
Means more to me than I do to myself
Not until I read aright the message in your pain filled eyes
That I must take the ones you loved and left behind
To live with me as my responsibility
Not until I freely place my stock of cherished certainties
Like sad surrended weapons at your injured feet
Not until the public and the private faces
Of my troubled Christianity
Can meet, and know they recognized each other when they met
Not until I know the names of more than half the people in my street
Finished?
No, I don't think so.
Not yet.
By Adrian Plass
(Sourced from here)
