Sinclair on Aimee

Through green-white breakers swift I leap,
Sun-sparkled seas by body keep;
Bearer of Gospel-Glory I
With singing angels in my sky,
And earthly chorus at command,
The trumpets of my silver band!
The cripples to my temple crowd,
I heal them, and they shout aloud.
A thousand miles my raptures go
Upon my magic radio.
Time, space and flesh I rise above,
I turn them into singing love�

What's this? A terror-spasm grips
My heart-strings, and my reason slips.
Oh, God, it cannot be that I,
The bearer of Thy Word, should die!
My letters waiting in the tent!
The loving messenger I sent!
My daughter's voice, my mother's kiss!
My pulpit-notes on Genesis!
Oh, count the souls I saved for Thee,
My Savior-wilt Thou not save me?
Ten thousand to my aid would run,
Bring me my magic microphone!
Send me an angel, or a boat�

The senseless waters fill her throat.
Ten million tons of waters hide
A woman's form, her Faith deride;
While thousands weep upon the shore,
And searchlights seek�and breakers roar�

Oh, gallant souls that grope for light
Through matter's blind and lonely night!
Oh, pity our minds that seek to know
That which is so—
And piteously have forgot
That which is not!


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This page was constructed in 1999 by Anna Robertson, an undergraduate American Studies student at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville, Virginia. To contact Anna, please send e-mail to or check out her home page.