Taken for the voice
of a sage
after resistance
to the contary,
refusing all laurels
for nearly being
only a memory
for truth,
without an echo
in annals
of tormented
ridicule,
Buried
as red flesh
without ashes
or speech,
no airs
only whispers
from crowds
who look away.
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i enjoyed this precious glimpse of the divine visitation. this poem is like a searchlight momentarily flashed upon the despairing darkness of human history, long enough to capture the image of the Teacher, High Priest, the Redeemer, the Lamb of Sacrifice, and the Servant/King Yeshua. thank you, b.z., for sharing your wonderful inspiration.
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