I am picturing the camp fires.
Israel of old and the stories of love,
faithfulness and deliverance
Passed down through generations.
And yet Red Sea partings were
Replaced with golden calf idols
Virgins for harlots
The pure for defiled.
And how did the story find such
Tragedy? Was it when it stopped being told?
When The power of a God who loved and cradled
And defeated armies of darkness before eyes
Was not the story on the heart of the child?
But rather the stick that stirred wasn’t as big as his?
And how do any of us begin to exchange
Simple wonder for the dull
And deadened? The greed-bound and the self-centered
Is it when Red Sea partings become fairy tale instead of truth?
And the telling fails to penetrate deaf ears and numb souls?
And I’m thinking of the telling and the hugging of
My heart by yours. And do you know in your dark
Whispering night that I see Jesus in you?
That the telling finds me with your exquisite life?
