The herald stands in the city gate.
His voice trembles and cracks at the wounds he bears for all to see.
Sometimes reduced to a whisper for the constant use of his voice.
Perchance one will stop to hear, of the thousands who pass him by.
He speaks of wounds, but they are not his.
He speaks of great injury, but can blame no one.
He speaks of a great calling, but who can hear?
Who will bend his wicked head to lend a deafened ear?
Still he stands, without flinching.
Still he proclaims despite the abuse.
If one will hear, he has a brother.
Though forsaken even by his mother , it’s a sibling he seeks.
What wounds do we bear that dare compare to the Holy marks on God?
What trials do we face , as we work out The Faith, as we stand there all alone?
It is to God we live.
For the sake of Life and others.
It is to “we” we are sent.
Rest your head in peace, you who believe in the promise of God.
The war will continue in the morning.
When morning comes you will take your place in the city gate.
But now rest and know that He is God.
By His Grace