Feelings

They gather—

like the sound of laughter at a party

or black-cloaked mourners at a graveside

or storm clouds thundering in.

They move—

like an eagle mounting the wind,

or a turtle shrinking back into his shell,

or a hiker lost in the wilderness.

They read the signs—

like a fortune teller

or a political analyst

or a hospice nurse.

They speak—

authoritatively—like a man with a PhD,

persuasively—like a woman with an object,

and commandingly—like a General to his army.

And they have never done a thing—

never crafted a universe,

or sprinkled galaxies with stars,

or filled the earth with creatures;

never molded history like clay,

or wiped out armies with one stroke

or laid the future out like a map;

never mended dying bodies,

or hushed a storm at sea,

or called new life from the tombs;

never stood firm beneath my feet

or painted the sky overhead

or loved me—

the world turns on the word of God alone.

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