As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same;
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves -- goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying What I do is me, for that I came.
I say more; the just man justices;
Keeps grace: that keeps all his goings graces
Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is --
Christ. For Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the feature of men's faces.
By G. M. Hopkins
For a man of God now fully in God, a man I knew and respected from afar, now faraway, yet closer than I know, his poetry unknown to my myopic; for him, who knows where Christ plays better than I do.