Blood and Water

Christ’s wound poured out blood and water. Our wounds, of course, pour out all manner of bitterness and gall. Were we to be pierced, to empty ourselves upon the world, the wrack and ruin that would result. It’s there, of course, isn’t it, in all the sound and fury? Righteous anger is justified, is just, of course, but there are the torrents and frenzies of our milieu,  that seem like little that has come before them. The incessant, unnerving chatter. The noise. I’m not wired for it.

As much as I support the movements of mediums that champion open dialogue, the freedom of speech, the pursuit of liberty, I get lost in the fragmentation of it all. 

Rattle my chain in my corner over here. Edge slowly towards eloquence. A humble plan, if ever a man had one.