they stand in reverent silence,
clasping their mom's hand
(maybe a thumb in the mouth)
staring wide-eyed
as the massive machines
doze the piles of dirt
this way and that, back and forth;
as the towering crane
gently bends over to grasp
and then lift the steel girders
high into the air where calloused
hands guide them into place,
riveting them to the beamed skeleton;
as the tool-belted and hard-hatted
carpenters, painters, plumbers, electricians
scurry about, sharing their gifts.
while we are standing around
seemingly oblivious to it all,
our hands deep in our pockets
(or our thumbs testing which way
the culture is blowing)
you carefully smooth out
the foundation poured by
those who came before us;
taking a stone from the pile
to make sure it is alive with hope,
your apprentices in hope
mortaring each one to the next
with grace.
so come,
Cornerstone,
come building that kingdom
where strangers become friends,
where immigrants become our family.
(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman
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