“Not of a god of thunder, 

a god of silk, 

a god of the rich 

did the carpenter speak, 

but a God of compassion, 

of peace, of a day brighter

than today; 

a God whose miracles still work 

in the slave pens and shacks, 

in the projects,

in the hellish daily life of the poor 

and the oppressed—

not miracles 

like walking on waves, 

transforming water into wine, 

but miracles of love arising 

in hearts where it seems least 

likely to flourish–

here and there 

in the barrios and the favelas, 

among those who have least, 

beat hearts of hope, 

fly sparks of Overcoming.”