Spilling Over the Hills

Spilling Over the Hills

(“They will not hunger or thirst, the scorching heat or sun will not strike them; for their compassionate One will guide them, and lead them to springs of water.” Isaiah 49:10)

Waving from the back of the parade
the children filled in the line at the end of the queue
following the music like spinning tops on a slow and
green Spring day.

Light never deceives; darkness beckons hopeless
moments canceling the stream of thoughts that walked
through the forest in the middle of the day.
Wait until the light shines again, look for the invitation
to traverse the amber swaying of afternoon sky.

We were told over and often that provision would
follow no matter the turns we took. But we were frightened
enough to staple our feet to the floor and waste our energy
trying to catch the rain in our hands.

But once we tasted the effervescent spring waters
on our tongue how could we sit still again, how could we
plaster ourselves to the inertia that kept us motionless? We
were hungry as children begging for another orange slice
as they were heading to bed. It seems we waited forever
to savor the moments that made us feel alive.

So, this time we joined the parade from the beginning,
singing songs of resistance, walking steps of resurrection,
and inviting every lonely observer to join us on the lookout
for new ways to celebrate the carnival days of joy when
we followed the promises like faith spilling over the hills.

Waving Us

Waving Us

(“And he called them to him, and spoke to them in parables, “How can Satan cast out Satan?” Mark 3:23)

When light stands up displacing the haunts of darkness
and
the rivers flow solid with richer healing than imagination,

Why do you still ignore your Creator?

When a night of certain-death is redeemed with a Word of forgiveness
and
a stone is moved like mere liquid from a tomb’s gaping mouth,

Why do you still resist your Rescuer?

But some still can see a shadow with crisp lines early afternoon
and insist there is no sun to make them.
And others will never, (evidence aside), believe, crucified,
the Man rose alive while earth was shaken.

And so darkness wrestles grayness,
sickness wrestles faintness.
The forgiven walk ashamed,
the Risen One remains the Anointed One
the Right Hand Man, whose wounds still bear
the scars of love’s best wager.

Demons scream at His name, and we still dabble
in our darkrooms hoping to discover the germ that
started it all.

Or we steady ourselves by our daytime labors,
our professions and provisions making sense of
the calm that comes before the final call.

He sits on the shore with breakfast
already baking, waving us shoreward;
He sits on the throne with mercy
already won, pointing us homeward

If we will walk in the light; creation’s best invention,
and redemption’s best intention; once (then, there, here, now)
for all. The strength of love revisited awaits
the next open moment, the silent solace of grace.