Angels serenade us with beautiful stringed harps,
And golden whimsical flutes,
And yet we cannot hear.
They whisper our secrets to us in our dreams,
Tenderly shining light into our dark corners,
And yet we cannot see.
In perfect synchronicity they manifest,
Intended for our witness-
Blue jays stretching out their wings in glorious splendor,
And yet we distance ourselves, refusing to believe.
They shout from the rooftops of our homes,
Stomping their feet in desperate attempt to gain our attention,
And yet in disgust we curse them, rebuking them away.
They ring our doorbells and delight when we gladly invite them in,
Even when we’re pious in our motives,
And yet they watch us slowly melt down in judgment and fear,
While we desperately cling to our self-righteous hopes.
Shivers up our spine.
It must be a sign?
It MUST be a sign.
We call out to the rebellious one,
The other one,
That one over there,
Lurking in the dark shadows.
“It’s him! It’s him”, we accuse,
His fear in our hearts,
His anger on our breath,
His delusions seizing our minds.
Curious it is to be lost in a forest,
Chasing the shadow of a dragon-sized tale,
And yet neither seeing nor hearing the trees which surround us.
Like Alice guzzling down her potions,
Our faith grows big and little again.
Microscopic.
Sub-atomic.
No wonder the angels marvel at our salvation!
