“With this ring…”

your strong, familiar voice

fell like a benediction

on my heart, that dusk;

tall candles flickered gently,

our age-old vows were said,

and I could hear someone

begin to sing

an old, old song,

timeworn and lovely,

timeworn and dear.

And in that dusk

were old, old friends –

and you, an old friend, too,

(and dearer than them all).

Only my ring seemed new –

its plain gold

surface

warm and bright

and strange to me

that candlelight…

unworn – unmarred.

Could it be that wedding rings

like other things,

are lovelier when scarred?

From Ruth Bell Graham, Sitting By My Laughing Fire

 

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