by Helen Murray
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Man lives in a great labyrinth, a mighty prison fortress,
Many are the pathways, and many are the doors
That conjugate the dungeons, punctuate the passages,
Offer hope but dash it as they sweep the prison floors.
The door of Education, with application painted,
Brings status and authority within the prison walls.
Those who enter grandly there will find themselves appointed
To manage prison functions. They walk all the prison halls
And chambers, and enjoy the many gracious entertainments
That the jailer has provided just to keep the prisoners sane.
They feel they’re in command, and like to dictate to the inmates
The way they should be thinking – the rules of the prison game.
Squeaky door of Opportunity can be opened in a spirit
Entrepreneurial, vigorous and lateral in kind.
Elbow grease in plenty to eliminate the squeak in it
Will get things moving smoothly and so leave the noise behind.
Very clever opportunists amass lots of loyalty
From people they employ and pay and canvass with their gifts.
They walk in power, and move and shake the prison just like royalty,
The best of them are kind and spend to give the place a lift.
The scarred and battered door of Work gives many a family man a life.
He lives and marries, pays his bills, enjoys his little children,
Hopes that he can keep it all and live long with his wife
In pleasant family harmony and preferably no affliction.
His weeks are fairly busy. Oft his weekends are the same
As he works on little hobbies making this and building that.
He has a shed with everything collected for his whimsies
He feels secure if his job is sure – he’s got everything off pat.
But what if any one of these should find it all too much?
Why, there’s the woodchip Fallout door that’s sprung without a lock.
It opens if one just so much as looks that way to touch.
It almost gobbles up its prey and then swings right around to mock.
But once you’re there it seems that spring has rusted on its log.
This filthy den accommodates lust, drugs and dark depression
Which chase their prey and lunge with jaws of a rabid, demon dog
To infect, and change for life, the manly pinnacle of creation.
Physical walls of the prison grow thicker with layers of little white lies.
These small white stones dug from its floor decorate the interior walls.
Intricate patterns adorn each room and demand admiring cries.
The craftsmen work very hard at this, but the space grows increasingly small.
And some there are for whom the stench attacks their airway spaces,
Who gasping and sputtering, reeling round, wish there was something better.
They’ve finished with trying to pick themselves up by their own bootlaces.
They’re tired of the walls that limit their vision and hungry for a different metre.
Plunging through the prison, ancient instinct crying low,
Brings them near to the porters at the door with info on how to get through.
It doesn’t seem to matter if they wear rags or a rich man’s gown,
To the porters each is treasured far more than ever they could know.
They explain that the door through the prison walls is the door of their very own heart,
Which has been made rigid by the little white stones of the lies they accept as true.
The stones have jammed the door so Truth cannot His light impart.
If they’ll open the door, invite in the Light, they’ll find a more glorious view.
They will see endless vistas from unimagined heights and soar into realms of love
That are well and truly hidden from imprisoned souls, but open to the children of God.
If a prisoner will welcome Jesus Christ, ask His Holy Spirit to move
Right in to rid his lie-ridden heart, of the stones and compacting sod,
Releasing the heart to begin again with a beat resonating on high
Touching eternity, singing with angels the praises of God above,
On wings of eagles, catching the thermals, diving and climbing the sky,
Knowing his maker, eating truth for breakfast, sweetened with fruits of love.
This is the beginning, the very beginning, of the true romance of the heart.
Truth brings you freedom – it’s lies that tie knots in an empty, second-rate life.
Did they tell you you’re worthless? The Truth says you’re precious, and wonderfully made – every part!
Did you think no-one cared? There is One who cares – and perceives every instance of strife.
Had you heard that a man must look after number one – if he doesn’t, no-one else will?
What a lie! We’re to care for each other to the death – we’re part of a mighty family.
When we all care for others a community is built where everybody’s need is fulfilled.
“Do for others as you’d have them do for you.” The truth of love invokes the homily.
The man who has opened the wisdom gate for the Light to come rushing in
Has connected himself with Eternity’s sphere. He’ll never be the same again.
There’s not one enemy can disconnect a man from the Heavenly realm.
He rides a Spirit ship across the tides of life, his Creator firmly gripping the helm.
He’ll not see the walls of mental dimension as limits for the mortal soul.
Instead he will attune his immortal spirit to the Spirit of Love - his goal.
‘Tis the Spirit of Love who wears the belt of Truth round His beautiful garment,
And he’ll ask that Spirit of Love to clothe him in Freedom’s identical raiment.
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