the relic

And then,
When I am old and dried,
They will crack open the deep brown husk of me,
Into two perfect halves
And peer into the shell they have pried.

Within this relic of my former self,
They will find the etchings of a soul once home;
Inscriptions telling story upon cold, hard walls.
Though they say ‘there is no God’,
They will see His name writ in stone.

They will learn the height and breadth of Him
The forms He has taken in my soul’s eye
See rooms enlarged to document
The mysteries of His person
And speak of a God that could die.

When their eyes fall on that ruin,
Like explorers first beholding in dusty glow
An ancient tomb
They will say,
“Surely He must live, that so well a soul could know”