"Aye, the crags are crooked up there on the West with the wind in your face as you clutch to its breast.
Are you tired, with your arms like feebled straw, clinging to belief behind your flimsy pride?
Oh for sure he stood tall in those bewildering days before a kneel was imposed in his heart.
You scramble high, friend, in these darkened days, but to what hope, to what light do you seek, and wreak havoc with your footsteps to attain?
With your shadows still clung to your back, forever reaching and grasping at the tendrils of your wispy hair that even now I see covers the shame of your face.
Is it faith, friend, that has carried you over land, over water, over such distance to be reckoned, and yet remains no true trek at all? The world is one, friend. It is all one. One thought, one risk, one painfully sorrowful execution. You have travelled but one measure of eternity.
Back then this was a sight to behold, wrought-upon earth reaching up towards Heaven, the sunset fading to darkness as he faced its solemn vow.
His face was a mask of decision, of humbleness and mistaken pride and fear that he had been chosen, that he had this chance and opportunity to seek, to find and to offer, the saviour of a people, the protector of his people.
The sky was a strange blush that day with the breath of the angels in its stream.
All was silent amidst their chorus, the expectation, the worry, the fear,
But he returned down these rocks, this barren land that was once fertile with trees and green lustre.
He had a set frown, a grim look and authoritative resolve.
And he spoke to the world in his company, and he spoke to them as a man to each man.
He conquered the world's heart without once drawing arms, or rising his wrath, just pity and sorrow and saddened love for the suffering many.
Only the malice of the enemy was enough to keep his grim determination from fleeing, flying from his grip as water though cupped hands; was it too much to seek peace in this desert earth? Was it not for what they strove and fought for and prayed?
And up their in the crooks and the crannies of this land, and the mount, and the wells that dig deep, there was a song that was sung, and we've been long listening but the words and the echoes are gone?
Would you not read friend? Read of the yet wavering tongue that still slips in its time to that great masterpiece, and gives you a quick glimpse of its melodious soul.
When the word was the word and the life was the life and there was none of this modern interpreting.
Simple times they were not, hardy and fierce, but the love then was real, and the courage was felt and the honesty though not obvious was still apparent if you looked with a kinder eye than the following fleet of heavy feet and heavier hearts.
Fear drives a man, so they say, but they seem never to take flight. Why and how can this be so, that they remain stood fast and fight?
Should they not sit and ponder the wake of their own destruction, whilst they riddle to the woes of the world's silver tongue?
Rile them up, friend, rile them up, but the answer need not be found, for it lies waiting to speak should you listen just a while.
Anger of the people shall do nothing but injure the credibility of the long looked after race, the race you yourself stand apart from.
Is it good to be alone, with the solitary consumption of the words of your soul?
Is it right that you cannot procure a little light to fill the void and so venture into colder places in a bid to feel warmth?
Do you not wonder at your desolation? Do you not think of finding someone waiting for you to return home, even if you haven't cared to discover where it is of yet, or who, or how it came that you are so late?
Instead of fleeing your shadow and searching for a sun, look about you friend and take heed for the sun is too high for you to reach just yet, and your shadow will never be far behind, but you can lighten someone else's darkening paths...
But not up this mount, with the crags that are crooked in the steeps that are sullied with the stories forgotten, and the morals begotten not from the truth but the tales that were written, and where upon life is sacrifice meant to achieve more than a later glimpse of history? You do not seem the martyr to me friend, though you feel like a good one if the heart had its way, but the mind's in a rapture, and it's holding you tight, and the fearful departure could come any day,
And you risk your long torment without knowing its love for another of kind, the kindred unknown that will strike out its flame.
In silence it's heard, and you'll then know the name of your salvation
For no hope now is to be found here."
