The Time Is Ripe

Over the plain of sorrows creeps the gentle beating of a sigh, a breath too soft for trumpeting, a faith too self-engrained to move the world. It is the stuff of spirit haunts; it is the frailest spark of love that never hungers, never needs return. Beneath the cover of the earth there is consciousness arising... already rumbling in the viscera of men. There is a moment coming when the crust upon our eyes will fall away; the church will be at rest. There is harvest on the cusp of time; when purest joy is the redeeming. Resurrection of the open heart will make epiphany of old impatience borne from those lean years behind the plow— the seeds of hope emerge and then the time is ripe for plucking. ~