days of death are hangdog, febrile, pushed and
pressed into a local hideout (perhaps
a million miles away). You’ve trod this land
as daily trips require, before they lapse;
now you need the sanctity of prayerful
peace and quiet. There’s room inside for friends,
queues to merge the crazy with the careful,
quixotic rites to reason shiftless ends;
enter then Elijah, shelved for telling
truth, his Obadiah sanctions somewhat
tendering his cause. We still hear him sing:
‘I’ve been zealous for the Lord God.’ and that
points faith to Galilee, Gethsemane,
gardens needing more than Eden tried to
give, beyond a knowledge base and many
chances to behave when whispers guide you;
pine instead to be yourself, Zacchaeus
climbing for a view, opening the place
to host the Savior that will see and free us,
dying with such days yet living in grace.
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