Pilgrimage

I see a house, where love dried up. It was never a passionate love, but I witnessed it there, I thought. The leaves are falling on it now; it looks forlorn and unkempt. It will soon just as well be burned to the ground. What will come, after the tornado washes through? Ruined lives, with nowhere to go. Silly dreams, not based on truth, will scatter like powder. Grasping, grasping, ever grasping, we people are. Listening to a god who isn't real, though he sounds like one. Acts like one, gleams light like one. Until he doesn't. Then it's too late and you're wrecked.

I see another house, where love dried up. It was on the verge of death, when somehow the light of God shone through the murky morning. Where there were once stark walls, color grew and bloomed. Where there had been angry noise, came a soft answer, a kind hand. Where bitterness grew like a snake root in the earth, mercy poured forth and cut down the hell tree. People who don't believe in God, in miracles, in the divine, line up and I will tell you. I, pilgrim of the tainted heart, witness of things beyond what can be explained. He is alive, I tell you. There is a redeemer...