The Argument

The Voice to write, to pen His name and speak a prayer: Most Beneficient, most Glorious, the All-Wise, the All-Bountiful Mohammad, Buddha, Christ, of You from whence I Am. The Voice is weary crying to be heard by One Son who turns away in judgment, that I who speak within conviction of My Truth am reduced to an accusation of being ... condescending. Perhaps to humble this tone the Voice still and soft, resonant as a dove that only coos, striking a Peace not found in the cacaphony of a blue jay, may speak. Oh, Son of Mine I cry in your pursuit of greed while praising the compassion you show ... to other Souls. Yet now to me you peer from lofty heights of arrogance. The Voice that will hold you calm, that wants always to never Condemn, never Judge, never Criticize, never Fault, never Blame, never Shame. Only speaks: I love you no matter what you do. A Voice crying, crying for this subtle life so short and sweet as the ever-deepening twilight brings the hope of yet another tomorrow upon this greatest of earthly love.