The Vanishing God

Go home, old man, turn to your bed and draw the covers to your eyes; there is no papa in the skies to hear your prayers, were you to dare to frame them. No spirit hovering?...to flood your mind with golden streets? No harps employed by pretty messengers with sunbeam hair?...no enemies to tread beneath your feet? Go home. Our censers do not swing for you; our choristers sing out of tune, our crowns, bereft of stars, are tawdry bibelot to weigh you down. Ironically, your heaven just passed you by and left your saving Lord to die alone. All you have left is the unknown, a bit of awe, perhaps, a sense of mystery and cries to an eternity of silence unaware that you are even there. Your peace, your rest is not in sacrifice or penitence but listening, never mindful of reply. Old fellow, what have you to say? "My children, how I wish that you might understand that I am merely blessed-- despite my failure to express the swirl of the ineffable around my head...confounded only by an adversary, too hard pressed to speak of anything but love." ~