What shall I cry out? All flesh is like grass.

All the prophets are poets

all the poets, prophets

Seeing how the words add up to not enough

Yet, we must stab out towards the Greatness

the Infinity that calls unto our Deep

Condemning our shallows

Yet in the chasm between we find small tastes

of Freedom

of the Love that cascades from beyond Time

The rich Triune draught for which we were made

Yet to taste

to drink

is to drown

and awake with thirst unquenchable, yet a joy inexpressible

Asking for more

yet crying for mercy – ENOUGH, I may just explode

And thus, spores of eternity take hold

to bloom

to expand

until every molecule and every inch cries GLORY

By Shawn

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