Imago Dei

In my mind, I hold a poem,

In my hand, I have a pen.

I put these words on paper,

And wonder who I am.

It is my pen that writes each letter,

But I am not the pen.

It’s the instrument of choice,

Simply following my hand.

So, it must then be my hand that writes.

And could I be my hand?

Never, since alone it’s blind,

Obeying mind’s command.

Am I then my mind,

That sacred place which forms each line?

Again, I shake my head.

For, my mind I still call ‘mine’.

Surely, then, I am the heart,

Nestled in my chest.

Yet, it still belongs to me,

It's beating never rests.

If everything is ‘mine’,

I must be, as they say,

An image of divine,

I am Imago Dei.