Plastic Jesus

A plastic Jesus glowing in the night,
a gift from Sister—God, what was her name?—
not white as light, but shining all the same
a pallid green, and gentle more than bright,

long-lost, I’m sure, a trinket never blest
and thrown away with other plastic trash
for tidiness and godliness must clash:
A landfill holds it now with all the rest.

I did not feel my bedroom in the dark
was Tabor, did not hear the Father’s voice,
nor did my second-grader heart rejoice
to see some light of yours, a faintest spark,

but how much would I give to see it now,
that small light shining gently in the gloom
of sleeplessness?  How much more in the tomb
this comfort, if the grace of God allow?

The landfill’s high, and higher ere the end
of all things.  Will it shine like Tabor’s light
with plastic Jesuses to make it bright
when Christ returns, all broken trash to mend?

O Son of God, make my poor matter bright.
When in that valley all of us have swarmed
let me be mended; let me be transformed.
Make me, if it be possible, a light.