The sparrow rides a wind it never earned,
Its wings edged bright with light not of its own;
A widow’s jar still whispers flour, unturned,
The cruse bleeds oil where want should overthrow.

From flint-split heart the rock remembers grace,
Manna descends like mercy’s slow refrain;
Lions grow tame before the psalmist’s face,
The fourth walks fire and cools the furnace flame.

The barren womb breaks sudden into song,
The prisoner’s chains slip off like outworn skin;
The leper reaches—finds his hand made strong,
New flesh where rot had gnawed its way within.

We, beggars waking rich, stand stunned and dumb:
Love’s scandalous arithmetic o’ercomes.