Love is just a song we think we wrote. Expecting much, but never prizing more, we seek to seize the vial, tip, and pour the joy we want but never learn by rote. Till one day, looking out beyond our moat at cherry blossoms on the other shore we see the longed-for things, once old […]Read more "Bridge of Love"
To bless, He waits, expectant, from His throne while down below the toilsome ant-roads long lead peopled millions to their bleak alone, and darkened nights withhold the joyful song. He reaches out, His very self to give while creatures grub for grabbing in their need and use the crumpled husks of life they live like […]Read more "The Open Shore"
A sea of chatter filled the air around: the shouts and laughter–turbulent and loud; and Bartimaeus, sitting on the ground raised his voice to shout above the crowd. The darkness pressed like noise upon his eyes. His heart, suspended, barely touched its beat. And yet he shouted, focused on the prize and would not stop, […]Read more "That Day in Jericho"
He sat at night beneath the darkened skies; if earth’s first man, its first in failing too. Regret, in shadows, closed him ‘round, and drew the salt and sorrow from his sinful eyes. E’en now he heard the echoes of her cries– Eve’s shuddered breaths– that wounded him and threw that past, and awful madness […]Read more "Adam’s Vigil"
The earth is stretched around its corners—tight, a spheric ship that travels through the seas of stars and roiling nova bursts that freeze or burn the thinning air around them, bright. And yet it journeys on, ship-shape and right with all precarious cargo: like the trees, and every crawl crustacean in the seas that hurtle […]Read more "Preservation"
Who can know the purpose of the King, or probe His mind to hear His hidden ways? Who can tell the reason for their days, the sighs or joys their earthly song will sing? They come in anguished sorrow oft to ring their pleas and prayers before the throne and gaze steadfastly waiting, ready for […]Read more "Waiting in the Dark"
It always seemed the lamb should die at night with dark like curtains, solemn, wrapped around, while pools of crimson gathered on the ground. Instead he died in milling crowds—and light. The priests were quick; their bloody hands a flight of flashing knives. The bleating sheep! The sound of death that pinched my beating […]Read more "The Last Lamb"