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          POEMS - 2008 - Barefoot



          Column


          BAREFOOT


          Barefoot,

          He walks,

          Among the dusty columns,

          And corridors,

          Of those whom He loves,

          Moving softly,

          Smoothly,

          Quietly,

          So quiet in fact,

          That He surprises many,

          Who think,

          That He is far away,

          Somewhere else,

          Sifting the blackness,

          Of night,

          Somewhere else,

          Settling the scores,

          Of the dead,

          When all along,

          His cheek,

          Grazes yours,

          His breath,

          Mingles with yours,

          His lips,

          Tease yours,

          To follow His,

          To unveil,

          The truth,

          That the Sovereign Lord,

          Walks by your side.

           

          Barefoot,

          His feet,

          Tread the scored tiles,

          And pathways,

          Of once sacred,

          Stone floors,

          That were meant,

          To impress,

          The One,

          Who sent Him,

          Stone floors,

          Stained,

          With blood and water,

          Stone floors,

          That lament,

          The sounds of war,

          Stone floors,

          That cry out,

          To worship at the feet,

          Of the Sovereign Lord,

          As He silently,

          Passes over them,

          In search,

          Of those,

          Whose hairs,

          Stands upright,

          On the backs

          Of their necks,

          When they know,

          That He is close.

           

          Barefoot,

          He circles,

          Round,

          And round,

          Those who kneel,

          In clusters,

          Those who are bound,

          In woven fabrics,

          And layered gowns,

          Cradling their young,

          In a world,

          Of make believe,

          Where their babies,

          Coo,

          With tiny voices,

          And smile,

          With laughing eyes,

          And point,

          With dimpled fingers,

          At the Sovereign Lord,

          As He stops,

          To return their grins,

          As He whispers,

          Their names,

          Into the winds,

          That meander,

          Through the giant pillars,

          And etched walls,

          That try to deny,

          His presence.

           

          Barefoot,

          He stands,

          Waiting,

          At the top of the stairs,

          Drawing circles,

          In the desert sand,

          With His feet,

          Waiting for you,

          To complete,

          Circles of your own,

          Waiting for you,

          To ascend,

          Without fear,

          Waiting for you,

          To stop looking,

          Over your shoulder,

          For those,

          Who can not see,

          The Sovereign Lord,

          Those who,

          Said that He,

          Does not exist,

          When there,

          On the landing,

          At the foot of the throne,

          There in the light,

          Of His own Glory,

          There,

          Without a hint of hurry,

          The Sovereign Lord,

          Waits for you.

           

          Sheila Willar  -  October 21, 2008



          Column


          Revelation 1:15 (KJV)


          His feet were like fine brass,

          As if refined in a furnace,

          And His voice as the sound of many waters;

           







          Copyright 2022 Sheila Willar


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