Poetry

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Don’t breathe new life and heat into the smoking ruins. They are dying and fading away. Let them moulder into dust and be reabsorbed in the ancient earth. The next rainfall will extinguish their last faint embers once and for all. That is, unless you breathe upon the coals of memory again and revive the wreckage so that it wrecks again, and reconstruct no redestruct the ruins so that they have power to ruin again. Once twice three times was more than enough for wrack and wreck and ruin. It has had its day, let come the seasons of refreshing now. They are more than a single season. From whence come they, you and I ask. They come from the Presence of the Lord

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