Time short before us in faith. Promises met and kept for the area beyond our seeing. Into the will of ourselves or God we pour out hearts, efforts and opportunity. Knowing only the outcome but never the day for which we ready.

Straining to look beyond bend, we sigh and find relief or angst at the end of our fictional ropes. Talking between us, we claim to know so much more. Fully frightened by the colors and picture being brushed out before our eyes.

Ready for nothing or prepared for everything. Laughing along with the friendly and drowning in sorrow for words in short supply. We cry for the innocent and pray for the convicted hoping that condemnation remains aloof.

Millennium’s purse. The waking and shaking of Stone and Cielo. Reformed to suit the construct of gates, fences, golden streets and Throne. We look forward to remembering everything until the pain ensues.

Calmed by storm and sea, knowing the superiority of promise and the events beyond the lake-shore. Into the sleeping eyes of God we peer, speaking rustling words to rain, sky and sea. All will be quite certain.

With emphasis on the imperfect and the miracles, we stop to brush away the windswept tears, smiling against the salt lain in our wake. To ponder tomorrow we are forced to focus away from this perfect day we’re given.

And that to the trials yet begun, we rejoice that although men must meet them, they thank heaven and heart for the opportunity to walk through fire. In thankful joy and supplication we find those things for which we once were careful.

Now God calls, trumpets peeling cry across the moors of morrow. Our ears behold the coming Rushed wind and fire-hearted Spirit. To accommodate nothing and make haste to call all things to the roads that leads asunder.