Thomas - a poem:

He is standing in a shaft of sunlight,
and I see that light not only falls upon him
but burns also within him, is kindled there
and is flooding through him:
he has become part of the light.
I see his face, his eyes, startled, wondering,
trace his outstretched arms, his open hands.
“All that is mine is yours, as you are mine” -
so speaks a voice from somewhere soul-deep inside him,
or else from the unimaginable heights
of the endless universe, where stars spin as they burn.

He has stopped on the road he was walking;
now, standing in the middle of the rutted track,
having raised his eyes, he brings them down again,
shamed perhaps by his road-worn, scribbled clothes.
Behind him, the distant city clusters around its cathedral.
I see the tower, imagine the faraway chime of bells.
It is the call to vespers;
and now the light upon him fades, and the road
once more is claimed by cloud and shadows.
He is, after all, still made of dust.

And yet he is no longer the possession of dust,
nor is that dust his destiny:
for what was new kindled within him shines still,
his heart is light and fire and love.
“In my Father’s house are many rooms” -
that promise which is now and always true:
“my child, I go to prepare a place for you.”
The light that is before us is sure, will burn for ever,
and he, and I, are gifted a place in that light,
in that welcome light, where we are known and loved:
with new faith and courage
and into the darkening shades of evening
we will walk on.