The Time Went By….

Yes, I felt the time with my Savior–“Jesus, I was with you tonight, the nails in my neck, my shoulders in the weight of the sagging flesh, hanging on my tortured flesh, through my forehead a ten penny nail. Yes Jesus, I have chronic pain. I have put it this way to friends, ‘Either I would that You heal me, or I will become an example unto Your Glory.’ So, I live each day, waiting fore the wall of white pain to hit my eyes, my chest, my back, and I have learned to say nothing. Tonight with the play, that fulfillment of emotion for Your blame and betrayal–washing Your followers feet, their petty squabbles, this painting with four groups of three, ah the painter’s portrait with You looking straight at me as though I am the false one, oh Jesus what would I do for you, as tears well, then do not fall, not enough of those hot tears to make a difference because Jesus, I have learned pain tolerance and to withhold the burning coals in my face, and my dear Savior now they come because I am ashamed, I am ashamed as I too might argue my innocence, then I feel again the nail through my forehead! Yes Jesus will make me an example of Love, His Divine Love; yes divine love, His Love, his love. So, which is it divine love, or Divine Love as I feel the tingle of pain precursor–oh will I be an example of Love with the arthritis of my spine flaring slowly, for His Glory I go on, H is preview of chronic pain, oh I can do it for Him, the Pain Tolerance with pain I have endured for is it five, six years? One looses count of the years because pain levels sometimes soar out of control, the ten penny nail through my neck, my face, my head, out the back, into my soft bone, flesh, muscle, the silent invisible blood oozing out the back of my head; then I think of Him this afternoon with body, the entire body sagging on those nails where He cannot breath, one labored cup of air escaping lungs invisible but this pain far surpassing my pain as His Body fights for each breath, as the blood trickles out of hands and feet, as ribs show through His chest and His torso, as He cannot breathe, His invisible Blood, finally the entrance into whisper of, “Father, why hast Thou forsaken Me?” The Pain coming like torrent like the pain I felt this evening; but was it? Was my pain anything like the torture He felt wit no breath, one blood soaked breath finally coming out like a trickle of air, and out of his dry, parched mouth, crusts of vinegar and saliva in His speech, “It is finished.” I feel a few tears in my eyes, just a few, not the empty gut, full nose, my bent septum preventing my air, I am hollow and indifferent with my teeth clinched. I end my lackluster words, waiting for only promises, the middle way, swayed not to the right of left, I am alone in my indifference and I listen to amazing Love sound through me head, He is dead until my realization, until I can push aside my own body and see Him.

 

Published by elgwyn

I was a University and community college instructor before retiring. I also worked in fast food restaurants, and retail stores. I am an ordinary man writing for because I want to write and because my education prepared me to write; BA English lit, MA English, EdS higher education, and MFA creative writing, free verse poetry and essays. Blogs are an answer to high-priced self-publishing. Walt Whitman had to self-publish his first 1000 copies of the 1855 edition of Leaves of Grass because in 1855 poetry did not sell. Most poets make a living in other ways than writing. Wallace Stevens was an insurance executive, and TS Eliot was a banker. Many writers teach, and always there have been writers who have written because they needed to express their thoughts and feelings. They wrote not necessarily to make money but to express "the old universal truths of the human heart" according to Faulkner. Here I reach a wider audience I missed than by self-publishing, and I stand a better chance to reach a wider audience for less expense than self-publishing. I self-published my first books, Winter from Spring, and Meditations on Gratitude; poetry and photo books which were easier to self-publish than to seek a not to seek a publisher company. This blog allows me to write for an interested audience because I write poetry and personal essays. I write for a friendly audience and present to you a slice of my writing. Perhaps you will enjoy what you read.

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