I was certain that I knew you At the tender age of 12. You'd so often been described by those, who said they knew you well.  Dark and rugged in your 30's, with a smile as bright as your robe.  Every teacher, every preacher with the very best intent,  Found new ways to hide the mystery,  Replaced by common sense.  And to know you was to keep you in my pocket. So easy to hold.  I know I can't explain you.  I would not even try to. And yet its clear that you are here beside me.  I marvel and I wonder.  So near and somehow still so far. What makes you who you are?  It is easy to insist, on what is packaged and precise, and dismiss the clear suspicion. That you're bigger than we'd like.
It is tempting to regard you as familiar, in so many ways.  I've tried to draw these lines around you.  A definition or an absolute, but I could not be satisfied with black and white.  There is so much more.  There is so much