Reflected in
the windows of this bus
a dark sparkling city floats
New Jerusalem
come down to earth.
Amen
and hallelujah.
Lights burn on towers
as plumes of steam rise
drift across the glass like prayers
to some imagined
window god.
Who would pray
in that city without depth?
No people are there
only lines
of tiny lights and shadows
pretending to be real.
In the city where
I live we pray.
Where sin is common grace
abounds and we
are much in need.
© 2004 Don Barnes
