Here in my curving hands I cup <br />This quiet dust; I lift it up. <br />Here is the mother of all thought; <br />Of this the shining heavens are wrought, <br />The laughing lips, the feet that rove, <br />The face, the body, that you love: <br />Mere dust, no more, yet nothing less, <br />And this has suffered consciousness, <br />Passion, and terror, this again <br />Shall suffer passion, death, and pain. <br /> <br />For, as all flesh must die, so all, <br />Now dust, shall live. 'Tis natural; <br />Yet hardly do I understand -- <br />Here in the hollow of my hand <br />A bit of God Himself I keep, <br />Between two vigils fallen asleep.<br /><br />John Hall Wheelock<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/this-quiet-dust/
