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
