poised

A hawk poises against the wind above the road, wings outstretched.  Is it for anything more than the joy of the thing?  Of feathers that catch the wind and eyes that see against the keen glare of cold November sun?

In other parts of the world, children poise between life and death, and I think of the Word made flesh who dwelt among us, and how He bid dead daughters rise.

What are we to do with the now, when we know Word better than flesh, when we cannot see His eyes, cannot carry our sick to Him with anything but words — words which we often lack?  What is it He asks for us, when our words fail, when He intercedes on our behalf?

The sky is glorious and blue, and they’re stringing Christmas lights on the campus Quad.  Did anyone know of the newborn Consolation, when Rachel wept for her children, because, at Herod’s decree, they were no more?  Would knowing have consoled?

How will it be, then, when this perishable will have put on the imperishable, and this mortal will have put on immortality, and we touch the Word who will wipe every tear from our eyes?

The joy of the thing: we shall see then, in the light of the Son.

I wait.

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