three strands and a cord

The fire wasn’t lit but the conversation was brilliant.

It was bright, and full and offered endurance.

Three friends gathered,

nay three brothers attended.

One had a gaze of peace and fingers that remained still.

He spoke and I, the blessed one, was content to sit.

His story went on and the tea soon ran dry.

Then the fire roared-though our eyes remained strained.

The flame licked our hearts, and bit the pain.

For this was clear, and this was certain-the man had seen much,

and at times felt uncertain.

Yet, his face revealed a smile or two,

that showed a peace which cut old chains.

He was filled, and I’ll pray this for all,

that we could be united with the same Spirit of awe.

A warrior in this world,

that’s what we must become.

Yet, our cheap shields and helmets we must lay down,

for He offers to clothe us again and again.

But we must be willing to stand raw and stripped,

to kneel low and humbly admit:

I am hurt, I am weary, I don’t get it right.

I am often one of the traitors that kissed you that night.

He’ll lift your head.

He’ll wipe your brow.

I’ve seen hands that were still and eyes that held peace,

through and through it all.

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