Well done, good
And faithful servant:
Your paths traced
A trackless wilderness,
Devastated, the memories
Of lush river reeds
Forgotten, soft foods and
Soft clothes a luxury
Your age needed turning,
Preparing, Brow-
Beating. And now it beats
You back, imprisons, you
Ask: is this what I
Laboured for? Is this
Replies the rising one,
“Look, and see.” Your age’s
Limits, fears, constraints,
Of change, decay, are shoved
Aside, chased away, the outcast
Re-embraced; the old is
Slain, the tide is turned, a
New day dawns, a day for
Kings and not for prophets, for
Soft clothes (not sackcloth)
Thrown down, for joy and
Songs, tears of gratitude
Not contrition, for Him and
His, no longer you
And yours.


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