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I Am a Hero of Old

I am a Hero of Old
I walk naked, with my life a canvas for the world to ridicule,
I am forced to walk nonetheless.
I am the object of a nation’s derision, as I walk the street embracing rejection.
But the Lord?
The Lord is my rock and my salvation!
For I have been baptized into his sufferings.
I have been baptized into the confusion of discovering my divine identity.
I walk the streets,
I walk the highway,
I walk the corridors of friends that mock my weakness.
But in his weakness, I am made me strong.
The humility to become less for the good of a greater revelation,
This is my privilege.
And though I be on meds,
And though I have breakdowns.
I continue, I will not relent, for it is my destiny to touch the sky in hope.
And recover.
I am a veteran of a war against a mind that would persecute me,
I am the recipient of a mind, that knows compassion, and this compassion torments in its
softness.
I am tough, for I have endured the rejection of the multitudes.
And no sanctuary can destroy the reality of my endurance.
And yet I endure?
Why, so I can tell my story and destroy the yoke of hopelessness.
Why, so I can witness to the power of God to never give up on me.
Why, so I can tell the world, that yes I am weak, but I am a hero of old.
For when it came time to choose between the life I walk and heaven eternal!
I chose to endure.
Why, so that you can see me shining in my glory, a hero of old.
Lisa, Michael, Sita, Louetta, Beth, Bubba, and women walking the streets gaunt, lost, but
not defeated.
For soon you will see me rise, into the stratosphere of the beauty that drives me.
And when I see you, I will forgive your derision.
And we will fellowship in that sound of symphonious reckoning,
For my story, is the story of human redemption,
My story, is the story of souls, old, tired, tormented, but not defeated.
And when you hear it, you will cry tears of admiration.
For when I had to choose, between the life I walk and heaven eternal!
I chose to tell you, that it can be done!
It can be accomplished, this mystery of wholeness that evades us.
For in the end, the two men between me, the voices that berate me, the delusions that
diminish my resolve.
Cannot compare, to the glory of his friendship.
And through that sorrow, I will transcend pity and know joy.
I am a hero of Old, and though my mind would rebel.
My soul is strong like the prophets before me.
Amen.

Copyright © Woodrow Lucas | Year Posted 2007

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