If miracles are works of sweet control,
Couldn’t You, Lord Jesus, rearrange
Some elements in me enough to change
The water of indifference in my soul
To something more like wine, to make me whole.
The altered piece I’d play might come off strange
To those around me; still, its worth would hinge
On Your appreciation of the role.
Not theirs. Nor even mine. Yours alone.
But where are Your appraisals brought to light?
And where’s the stuff of miracles : the sight-
Restoring spittle-mud, the fingered gown?
Oh, I would love to live to love, to see.
Sweet Jesus, work a miracle in me.
Christopher FitzGerald.
Sonnets to the Unseen: A Life of Christ. Sonnet 94.