The Immortal One

   Be quiet, they were saying.  The Immortal One is about

to speak.  Come on.  We want to see him.  We want to see

the man who healed our land and helped us through the

end.  Sit down in front!  We want to see!

   And then he appeared at the bottom of the natural

amphitheater of grass that led down to a small lake.  The

crowd fell silent as if that, on cue, all had held their     breath.  He was not one to be desired on looks alone.  He was plain, and one had to strain to distinguish him from the others that lined the edge of the lake.  He did not stand out until he spoke.  His words resounded over the people:

When I came here just months ago,             

I found a people whose heart lay heavy with grief              

     over the loss of so many loved ones.

I found a people in great need of direction.

I found a people blind, nowhere to go, no reason to live.

I found a people who had given up,

     Who long before the tribulation began,

     Who long before the hailstones fell,

     Who long before the sun was turned into a shroud for

          earth,

     Who long before the bloody moon had ceased to be a

          light of love,

     Who long before comets colliding and sealanes   

          thrashing and dry land churning with foaming

          salt and sand,

     Who long before blood had filled their streets,       

          sweeping out the day’s rubbish and bodies,

     Who long before the eyes had cried themselves

          dry, with heaving breasts and bitter moans of

          loved ones lost,

     Who long before had demanded rocks to fall on          them to end living death’s sore agony,

     Who long before all these woes and more,

Had sought their own retreat from the battle some

         call life.             

And my Father and yours, the King and Creator Himself,

Came to your aid by showing you signs and wonders,

Miracles done through these very hands.

And you fell on your faces before me.

Your tears as streams of joy did soak the thirsty earth.

And you worshipped me as God, and I told you, Do it not,

For I am but one sent from the King Himself.

Worship Him who can grant you immortal life—

Who granted me this life of power you see me have,

Whose evidence you see by your dead raised up

To hug your necks again and kiss your cheeks again,

And say, Mother, I love you. Father, thanks for loving me.    

Your fields of hope were burned.

The rivers of your dreams were molten sand and rock.

You wandered dazed in fields of sorrow.

You cried to your gods who have no ears to hear.

But the King heard and was moved in His heart and said,

Go to them whose fields are black,

Whose steams are coals and tell them about me.

Tell them of my kingdom and my righteousness

     and my law.

And so I came to you.

You were mine to heal and mine to show the way.

But I did not tell you all the secrets of the King.

You did not ask.

It was not time to enter mansions

Whose rooms are gold with light,

Whose doors lead joyful pilgrims on to praise.

But that time is now.

That time is now.