Sunday, April 03, 2005
The soul of a man weighs hardly a thing,
Just twenty-one grams, it is said:
The weight of the spirit that finally takes wing
And leaves us the instant we're dead.
The weight of a hummingbird flees at our death,
A stack of five nickels or so;
It's wafted away on our ultimate breath,
And wings to its bliss or its woe.
Theresa’s sad spirit weighed slightly less,
Or somehow John Paul's soul weighed more?
Or won’t a kind Father then equally bless
All children who come to His door?
If cripples have souls that equal in weight
The soul of a pope, we averred,
Dare we conclude equal worth is innate:
Humanity makes this inferred?
Just how we care for the sick and the lame
Defines us for ill or for good.
Brain-damaged woman, or a person of fame:
We care for them both, or we should.
© 2005 Jeffrey Hull