No mirror to reflect,
no voice, only dust,
sculpted by hands,
crafted by plan.
No self-stirring spirit,
no knowledge, no thrust,
only dust, fingerprinted,
moulded – with tears
and with blood and with sweat –
now we stand,
heart and body,
earthenware image,
dust reflecting
in praise.
The Consolations of Writing 
A grow less religious as I get older, but a poem like this inspires me!
I’m so glad!