On this day I sit and think and ponder on all the fingers that point at me and signal with their urgency – it is you! And thus do I walk forward now on this path and as the relaxed posture of the flowers show, it is hot outside and so it is not surprising that a drop or two of sweat slowly slides down my brow. To return to the theme, perhaps I am a bit too self centered in my musings so I consider that all I see is concerned with me when in reality I know that this cannot be. For true, if I were the center of this world’s play then would not I perhaps inhabit a more prominent role? Or am I just doomed to be the bit character, the one with a single line in the third act that perhaps isn’t even heard over the shrill whistling of the birds perched overhead on the balcony. Perhaps so. Yet if I have a line and if this line must be said, should I not practice the all important art of elocution to ensure that at least there is a chance the few words I have fall gracefully upon the ears of those still perked towards the stage? That is my attitude and hopefully it is not arrogant to assume such, especially if I have manfully resigned the expectation that the central part is mine. In fact it never was. Grateful for that I am for it means I can rest in the shadow of another.

In fact all my hope for a better life lies not in what I can do for myself for all my own strivings show is – in proven fact – how inept I am at bettering myself in the attributes that have that certain something – oh you know what I mean – that aspect of the infinite, that piercing rhythm of eternity. So my ineptitude points to the fact that I cannot in and of myself contribute anything of lasting value to the novel whose pages so rapidly are flicking flicking towards its close. But why yet does my finite sluggish mind grasp so much for the beauty that it cannot in itself define? If I cannot so define, how do I know that there is such a possibility? This concept has stubbornly embedded itself in my mind and perhaps is an original feature of my soul, that idea that the infinite exists and that it is beautiful beyond compare. Where is this treasure, where is this pearl of great price? Perhaps oh if the infinite would bend down and say a word or two to give me that glimpse for which my soul longs. Oh for this word to come down and in itself give me such life that in comparison to it all else is merely grinning death. Oh for this word to stretch forth a hand and say that which my soul aches to hear. Where is this treasure, where this pearl of great price? Perhaps it truly is found in that song of grace and truth which I so casually dismissed so long ago. Perhaps it truly is found in that old worn story that says that man or god or perhaps both came to bring peace to earth. Where is this treasure, this pearl of great price? I shiver as I say aloud that name that rings redemption in divine majesty. I weep as I sit at the foot of the cross and ponder he who is called Jesus Christ.