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|Posted on 21 July, 2017 at 20:16||comments (25)|
Tears talking, pattering petition on the door of heaven. " Let me in " Wet misery, fountains of fury, rivers of recrimination. Tears tearing down the riverbed of doubt, stopping at the throne. Bottled bereavement, arranged by the angels, given to the King.
God tilts the bottle carefully over His book of rememberance, letting the drops fall onto a clean page.
Transported in a teardrop, translated into eloquence, my washing woe writes its wounded worry down.
THE FATHER READS MY TEARS, PASSES IT TO THE SON, WHO SHARES IT WITH THE SPIRIT. THE ANGELS GATHER ROUND. SOME SMALL CELESTIAL CHERUBS ARE LIFTED TO THE FATHERS KNEES. THE STORY IS TOLD.
THEY LISTEN, THEY ALL LISTEN, I AM HEARD
" I HAVE HEARD HER PRAYERS, I HAVE SEEN HER TEARS". SAYS THE FATHER
" I AM TOUCHED WITH THE FEELING OF HER INFIRMITIES". SAYS THE SON
" I WILL PRAY FOR HER WITH GROANINGS THAT CANNOT BE UTTERED'. SAYS THE SPIRIT
AND GOD SHALL WIPE AWAY ALL TEARS FROM HER EYES, SING THE ANGELS AND THERE SHALL BE NO MORE DEATH, NEITHER SORRROW OR CRYING, NEITHER SHALL THERE BE ANY MORE PAIN. FOR THE FORMER THINGS SHALL PASS AWAY.
PUT MY TEARS IN YOUR BOTTLE, ARE THEY NOT IN YOUR BOOK. PSALM 56: 8