billowing smoke, baking covenant bread.
Fire from the word of God
spoken in thunder.
And the mountains have been tumbled,
though not all walk on the new path formed,
that path paved by Golgotha's quakes
and the upper room's winds.
That's the fire on the mountain
knowing people wanted to see but could not, yet.
Even now many don't see, sadly,
with broken minds,
childlikeness forgotten,
filtering out the blue,
beauty never to be grasped.
"Why do you speak to them with such stories?"
If they wanted to know, they would ask and be ready.
But it's easier to hold onto things for comfort,
when comfort is the familiar project
thought to be our own.
Nothing is ours until we realize that it is so
and beginning them we can share,
share a beautiful vision
and listen with graced ears in partnership
hearing the symphony of the healed heart.
I'm waiting to see the mountain with fire,
yet not consumed.
In the clouds, in the words,
may I be found,
with blessed eyes,
and blessed ears,
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