The Translation

He who walks a wooded country lane
And crosses through a meadow fair,
Or rests beside a running brook---
Can he deny that God is there?
He who holds a tiny frail bird
And feels the rapid-beating heart,
Then frees it and sees it fly away---
Can he say God has had no part?
And he who sees a rose unfurl---
Exquisite, fragile petals grow,
Can he believe in happenstance
Evolved from long, long ago?
I see many manifestations---
Call them miracles, if you will---
But these things tell me God has lived,
And my heart tells me He lives still.

by Shirley Kelly Mears

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