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a voice crying out in the postmodern wilderness

Outside of the Ticking

Gone
Yes, gone
Even the dust
forgets your
name.

Hour glasses fatten
at the bottom as gravity
says, “You’re mine.”

What’s left dwindles
like the best meal
you’ve never had.

It’s passing, this smoke
of a life. The Psalmist says
it’s an evening shadow.

True.

But this life, this glimpse
is just that — a peek —
into a realm in which no
one is forgotten.

You were known before
you were knowable;
think on that.

He traces the wounds
which your future sins
bore, and he waits
outside of the ticking.

Spirit and Truth

Joy Doesn't Melt