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Nothing is ever quite the same; as threads in an eternal tapestry, we never see the Weaver's Hands. We can hear the loom as it spins and feel the care of His creative hand; we never see them as they select the thread for a work already finished. It is a love story. Its earthly origins can be traced to ancient poets and prophets; it's logic unassailable, its follies all to common.
Come away with me and join the love song of those who remain. We grew from a single grain of wheat planted thousands of years ago. We were small in number; considered dangerously mad by the society of Rome. With each succeeding generation, we gathered strength--only to be pruned back to almost nothing. There were great trees all around; they boasted of great harvests but their fruit was bitter to the taste. We found a spring whose water was magically pure and we drank. That fountain recreated itself in each of us and we drank deeply, daily from its reservoir.
We no longer fear as we find ourselves in another century, another country and speak of things old and new. We wrote down HIS words - scarcely understanding their meaning. We bound them in great leather volumes and cruelly fashioned the bonds of terrible ancient prisons. Words of life and healing have become our jailers who assemble their prisoners and march them to the chambered fires of dogma and hate. Enough of this cruel religion, its death, dark prisons and wasted souls. Cisterns are so bitter that they poison everyone who drinks. We are arising. Listen for the ancient song. Let it's chords awaken your heart to everlasting life.
Author PH
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