Perhaps the window throws the view.

Do you see me here, see right through?

Does this window, a stained-glass face, keep it hidden, a secret place?

I think sometimes I'm not what's seen,

That maybe something else has been.

Yet now I stand here in the light,

No colored panes to hide from sight.

I'm plain, I'm frail, I know the hurt,

My sweat and blood seem to stain my shirt.

My hands are hard and weary-worn...

But here...yes, here, something else was born.

Here is one who loves the trees, the quiet whisper of the leaves.

Here is one who loves the thrill, the run and leap of physical skill.

Here is one who loves the words, the way they flow and sing like birds.

Here is one who, like us all, though weak and simple and prone to fall,

Though cracked and sharp and in need of repair, says,

"Here I am.  I am one of you all."

If such we are, and brothers and sisters,

When baring a soul, even its blisters,

We see that we all are made of same dust,

That each one's own revealing required a trust.

So step out from the window, and admire it anew,

For now, on the other side, you see the red and the blue,

And the glint of the sunlight falls on the real you.