Love’s soft hand upon your heart did not fail in touching the light and kindling the memories that shall sponsor the passage to dream. She is forgone, not as conclusion or taken for granted but in surety of Eternity’s light caress on the mind of those caught in frailty of time’s counting. Where is the amber rose in Winter but in the heart of men who cannot wait to smell the gift of Spring’s launching breeze, content in the knowledge that its petal shall fall freely adored by all.

When not if time wanders off having lost its powerful grip upon life, we will sit quietly in the early light of new day. Dreaming of the unlimited, the undaunted the majesty of God’s Imagination. The soft, rhythmic heartbeat of God’s Call upon your Spirit marks time gently with the turning of the Earth and Stars. Counting sideways on timeline that which is better expressed on the back side of Z Plane upside down propelled immemorial. What graphic or word may express that which is yet comprehended, those things existing without knowledge, defining my universe that I have yet to make familiar.

To Pine for God is time’s precious gift reminding US with tired bones, gray hair and shuffled walk that we are not permanent in this place but only in His presence. This day is not the fulfillment of my purpose for I go on and on walking with Alpha and Omega, learning that which I have yet to behold. Love is my freedom not failing in the simplified wondering that I should be set free here when here we may never be set free but for eternal life’s review. The surrendered are free, the rebellious captive and the irony calls upon each to reconcile. I shall not know my greatest now for I have never met my maker and seen fully His Loving Grace face to face as His Promised Hope is fulfilled in my seeing.

This place is quite pleasant and altogether frustrating as it vacillates from good to worse, joy to dark and weak to seemingly rigid. I suffer the impermanence as my mind seeks flight beyond the comport and controls of gravity, time, sound, space and memory. Written on the tablet of the stars having become part of God’s story of for this and every universe, my name will appear as a small set of chicken scratches on the grant tapestry He weaves. That string, made faithful by the trials and the loving direction and counsel of God, eternity will acknowledge me as one who made the Book. He wrote me in the Book.