I write this to you from beyond the end, and the beginning.
I am gone from you, and I am with you.
I am dead, and I am alive.
As my stilled face speaks, listen.
Know that I was weary with energy,
wise in my folly.
Life is a paradox, a hypocrit,
it defies definition, while defining us.
Consistant in its inconsistancy,
we are toyed with until broken.
Shattered, we are made whole,
in death we are made alive.
Be joyful that as I am dust,
blown in the wind,
Heaven has picked up the fragments,
one by one each flaw and fruit are named,
piece by piece I am restored.
I will wait tirelessly with impatience,
standing as a statue in motion,
at the gate of Glory,
proclaiming aloud the quiet mercy of Father,
thanks to the servant Lord Jesus,
and the helpful helplessness the Spirit provides.
I guess I figure that there will be plenty of words of clarity spoken when I'm dead. I'm sure someone will
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