Years pass faster than days as the twilight approaches. An oncoming train, a light at the end of the tunnel, or perhaps the descending Morning Star racing toward the end of the age. I know the Christ once felt age slowly tearing at his temporary home as the moon turned the page possibly bringing on an illicit smile from a certain far spent demon’s face.
Yet the years they no longer race for a Messiah ascended, and I’m left here to consider a life lived and a life attained by a Lord who lived the life, crossed the threshold, and beckoned us to take up the crisscrossed wood with both wrinkled hands, letting the over used watch fall back into the pocket.
Gregor Southard 