Skittish of Prophetic Noise

‘We played wedding songs, and you didn’t dance, so we played funeral songs, and you didn’t weep’ Luke 7:32b Scribes and Pharisees, lean in. They lean away, their fingertips at play, nimble, with no paper cut. The pipers toot out a jig and they scowl; then a dirge and they skirt. Skittish of prophetic noise, they amble for their toys and go on walkabouts to gather up the fish before the net goes out. Digits, hush, or like the dastardly, wiggle about underhandedly. Scribes and Pharisees, at the skirt of the Savior, don’t recognize his mild behavior; they criticize. Whereas, one woman chances to believe, to receive power to be healed of her infirmity; Pharisees harrumph to repeal - “not on the Sabbath!” The scroll rolls out like a red carpet, snatched back up. It is only for the designated driver to enforce. And enforce with force, he does; take his pill. Chill while each stays blind, lame, deaf, demonic. The wise that hide their eyes in Jesus’ hem, go left and right, on the narrow. Miracles and forgiveness of hidden rose petals. Heaven is dung to those who would rather cling to popularity, religiosity, to their perfect life. And what will they have at the end of the dusty trail. No one to listen to them. Will every day be like a Sabbath, where they aren’t allowed to pick up their mat and escape through heaven’s gate? Yet, they shall see the walk of their enemies, piled high smiles, the light before darkness, fire and brimstone, hell to be exact. Never again will they catch a glimpse of what they lost, though they try to unscramble their minds, lost to forever time, without a save.