He calls, in a way no man expected. He calls, whispering in the unanticipated silence. we hear we do not understand, or know.
My God our God why do I know that we are not forsaken? We are your people, as the lilies and the wild roses, sparrows in your eyes. Sacred. Un-alone.
And the hopeless vista of your love.
Our lives are shaken, our building undone. We are children, no longer laughing in our childish, interrupted play. And we have learned at last to weep.
He calls, in a voice like thunder in falling concrete and ruined walls. He calls. NsB 14-09-2001 "he calls"
This dates back just about two years. It's still one of the favourite things I've ever written.