Not words that inspire or draw others to your cause, not words spoken from an oasis, but utterances from a soul desperate for peace. A broken hearts cry for solace spoken through cracked lips from a long thirsty walk in the wrong direction. A walk discovered to be a wandering of chaos and destruction. A man shaken by the realization that the footprints he just discovered in the sand are his own.
“I am here again” falls from broken, bleeding lips.
The carcass of rotting flesh has drawn me. The bloated hearts craving has steered the ship aground on the jagged rocks of its own embrace.
Can enough condensation gather on the wool to drip the shattering wave of grace again?
Is there one more measure of mercy to sing to this numb heart?
Is God’s grace gone a distant echo heard only by ears long since silenced? A nice theory painted on stony walls?
Surely not words voiced by a scarred wanderer, to him they are mere whispers of fantasy encased in turbulent seas. Yet the powerful voice that calmed the storm declares with redemptive authority their truth. Thirst speaks its need loud and very clear. Hunger displays the utter weakness of the human condition. Blind from desert wanderings we are led by the hand to the well, ushered there to be brought back to life, to see again, to hear the birds song in the trees at the oasis of mercy.
There is not but a drip of grace but alas, an endless ocean where wave after wave of unmerited acceptance fall upon the shores of our lives. The hideous disfigured wandering soul, unrecognizable to those closest, is there at the waters edge, beautiful. Favored and rescued he lay, having traveled through the barren inner lands now recognizing those fruitless attempts at peace, only and finally covered and free, there at the sea.