Wednesday, August 14, 2013

The Washed Shingles of the World

Just a few weeks ago I agreed to manage a neighbor's lemonade stand, when a stranger made a purchase and proceeded to drink it, only then to confess to me that he had no money. While I am not  confrontational by nature, I found it within my duty as a good friend (to the original manager, not the customer) to demand some form of payment, where then he gave me a poem he had found and I was persuaded to make the change with money from my own pocket. While I told my friend about the incident, he took no interest in the poem, so I have kept it and publish it here for your interest.


We like to pretend that what we see is brand new,
That the tales all around us are for only a few,
We don’t want to think of what history has told,
So we progress down a path two thousand years old.

Oh you can’t go down the unbeaten trail,
Without some hope that others before,
Have walked along, and thus belong,
To a tale and a fate that we carry once more.

The fires of armies are burning bright,
They are burning quick and strong,
But the flame of God is in that night,
And has smoldered here all along.

Listen, listen now! Hear the receding roar?
The tides of God are turning fair,
Its crimson foam leaving cleaner there;
The washed shingles of the world.