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These Words were to be reserved for another time. April 18. They were supposed to be describing Brian Lara five years on from the day he reached a world record 375 runs.

The idea was to say something about those five years of pressure and pain and promise not fulfilled.
But Lord knows what I'll say now.
In truth, different words have to be found.
Tuesday March 30 demands no less.

You see, I saw Ma praying for a Benny Hinn miracle at Kensington. I watched thousands of agonised West Indians putting faith in their messiah at the ``Mecca.''
Tuesday 30 was the day of judgment for Windies cricket. And ``Muhammad'' arrived, 375 in hand to pass sentence on 11 Australians.

But Brian Lara does not deal in miracles. Just works of wonder.
And like 213 at Sabina Park, that is exactly what 153 not out was.
But it represented much more.

The epic 277 of Sydney, 1993 was the first flourishing of the Lara genius. The world-shaking, record-breaking Test-best 375 at Antigua and the massive 501 at Edgbaston, both in 1994 were further manifestations of what I shall call ``The Gift.''

But what we have seen these past two weeks, dear readers, is something else.
In our world of excess and overdo, ``great'' is easier to say than good.

Indeed, the Sydney spectacular was a classic, a finer display of batting craftsmanship I'm unlikely to see. By sheer magnitude of runs, force of will and more supreme strokeplay, 375 is also an epic.

But even in the Lara gallery of ``good'' innings, fresh room at the top must be made for the Sabina special. And especially, Kensington's piece de resistance.
As I watched it unfold, run by fascinating run, a couple things struck me. This was not superman at bat.
Brian Lara is vulnerable, anxious, very, very human.
``Oh gawd!''

You could almost see the words forming on the lips, the concern flashing in the eyes through the grill of the helmet when the ball just missed the outside edge.

Those soundless words of thanks, mouthed to the heavens when he made it to lunch, spoke of a man under pressure. And feeling it.

But for all his mortality, at Kensington there was an other-worldliness about Lara on that strip of 22 yards. Skilled technicians can construct fine works.

But very rare is the craftsman who can combine the mental and physical in crisis to produce gold.
It is only the one with The Gift who can produce an aesthetic delight during a mission of mercy.
And that, friends, is what Lara did.

Steve Waugh's Australians are a battle-hardened bunch. They know how to win-and expect to win, especially defending 308 on the final day of a Test match.

So that from the time he resumed with Adrian Griffith on the last morning, the West Indies captain was confronted with the fire in the eyes of Jason Gillespie who would beat him all day.
He had to face snarling, uncompromising, relentless, magnificent, no-quarter-asked-no-quarter-given Glenn McGrath.

To snatch victory, he had to conquer the bowlers, Shane Warne, Stuart MacGill, and at the same time, out-captain Waugh.

He knew it, the Australians knew it, five million West Indians expected it. And Lara was able to face down the demons and do it.
The eyes, so clear, so focussed, betrayed the man.

Using messianic will-power and the sharpest cricketing intellect, he produced near flawless execution to take up this Calvary-like challenge.
And, like at Sabina, he triumphed.

So too it must have been with Headley and Sobers at their finest, I heard myself saying.
For this was no mere Spectaculara, no mere parading of class like we saw yesterday.
This, finally, was the refining of genius.

With this character, further contradiction is always possible, I concede.
Still, I daresay that our captain has come to discern that genius can be not only a source of great power. It can also be an avenue for liberation.

These past years Emperor Brian has misused The Gift, wielding his power and causing conflict here, confusion there.

It took the near flattening of ``Rome'' before Sabina gave us a sign of different times.
But Liberation Day arrived, for Lara as for the Baptists last Tuesday. In the crunch, there was a studiousness of approach, patience.

This had been missing in the flailing cameos of recent vintage. This was not Lara The Conqueror of 1996 who took McGrath's bait and was snagged.
The gaps between bat and pad were sealed, as if padlocked with a Yale, allowing no hope for the opposition.

Where Adams was mesmerised by the mystery of MacGill's googlies, Lara solved the puzzle.
``No problem, Jimmy.''

And sweetbread shots, when selected, were played with calculated devastation.
``Skip,'' ever quick to counter, floated down to the leggie and stung him. He measured off Warne and spanked him with delicious late-cuts.

The near misses provoked only silent incantations, a clenched fist and new resolve. And a crack on the head was good for a triumphant pull for four off McGrath. Adams, a disciple since Sabina, took the cue. So did Ambrose when, with 60 runs to go, he joined his skipper and stayed an hour.

A precious few had seen Lara work with the Trinidad and Tobago tail against Courtney Walsh and Jamaica in the Red Stripe Cup of 1994.

But on this grander stage, The Gift surfaced again.
The captain got 52 of the last 70 runs, 47 of the final 60 he made with Ambrose and Walsh.
Lara out-farmed even Old McDonald, the judgement of when to and when not to poach the singles being near perfect.

Perfection too was there in that final caning of Gillespie to seal the deal.
At last, The Gift had taken Lara to cricket's Mount Zion.
Hail the Prince?
Behold, The Man!