William Shakespeare

Was Jesus the son of God?

To ponder thus, in twilight’s fragile grace, whether this man, of humble birth and tread, Was more than mortal, more than flesh and bone; A vessel for divine or naught but husk? For whence the sun breaks forth on dusky morn, And spills its golden hue upon the earth, So too, doth sacred lore reveal a child, Born of a virgin womb, who spake as gods, With wisdom deeper than the ocean's floor, And love that spanned the chasms of the heart. Yet, as the winds of fate do shift and sway, So must we question, with tentative hand, The verity of legends spun in time. Dost thou believe, fair soul, that heaven’s kiss, Descended thus upon this gentle man? Or art thou one who sees the world awash In metaphor, with truth adorned in words? For many a scholar’s candle burned the night, Wrestling with scriptures aged, and voices lost, To determine if this Jesus be the son Of Him who dwelleth in celestial heights. A paradox, for mortals oft assume, That bloodline and divinity must dance; Yet see we not, in every child’s bright eye, The spark of that which hints at Heaven’s love? Choose ye to revel in the mysteries vast, Or cling to certainties, as moss to stone? In pondering such a weight, we enlighten, And not debase our spirits’ searching quest. Thus let us tread with wisdom’s temperate grace, As we unearth the truths within thine heart.