They Nearly Stole the Show

 

They Nearly Stole the Show

(“All the people saw this and began to complain, ‘Look at the kind of man Jesus stays with. Zacchaeus is a sinner!’” Luke 19:7)

You stole their money, they stole your soul;
they knew what they heard,
they understood the whispers;
they decided you were impure,
they knew where you lived and
what you hid.

They were sharpened peaks of brass,
their words fell like granite upon
the infamous. They circled their best
epithets in red (Sinner, sinner, oh
sinner man). They hauled the dust
from the outskirts of town to dump
on the heads of derelicts who should
know better. They nearly stole the show.

What does an invitation mean? A
loaf of bread and shared wine? A
table set for two where
the Son of Man
pierces you with eyes wilder than
eagles, sharper than a roman sword.
But you stay, you are untamed by
the laugh you hear for the first time;
the laugh of joy. You are unrestrained
by the tears that you know he sheds
for your own.

The gates have opened, you have jumped the fence,
the air is sparkling, the birds sing in present tense,
the way is unfolded, the road a homeward path,
the sun is indiscreet, the winds sweeter than honey.

Emptying your darkness into such beneficent light
unbuttoned the gathering days as you shared the
harvest of grace.