Making All Things New

There was a yesterday, pulling at my mind, disclosing the expected mundane self reacting, not inclined to throw the clay upon the wheel, to love without a cause, to walk the forest path seen overgrown again and yet there was an incompleteness hovering. It was as if a man would be content caressing all the little treasures that he knew and loved--the ones he kept within a little box that rested close at hand. Old friendly ghosts were there for nourishment and with emollients for dying days. And yet there was a scent upon the wind. There was a voice, more powerful than ears accommodate, that beat upon the modest self that hides beneath my consciousness, brought forth like Lazarus and swathed in winding sheets, reluctant to arise. A working Christ would be like that. No force of arms, no epithet of conquest nor a blooded history to write. A gentle call into the tomb would do it— just a soft reminder that there is no grace in sleep beneath a monument or stone— that there is glorious bursting of the night in store; there is a paradise to own. It takes that tug upon the consciousness. It takes an empty page or two before the forward to a mound of years set down. The alpha and omega bow before that bright eternity of now and are consigned to rhetoric; there are the stars aborning, charted, crumbling as their yesterday becomes today, and in the morning light will disappear. ~