Moving slowly with the wind,
. elements of thread bare rags
. sit idle on the parched and colourless ground.
Curled up in a ball.
Like a wounded child dressed in dust.
Frayed fabric sways,
shifted by the breeze and its biting thrust;
fragments of its former self.
Silently dancing to discordance
. bowing to abandonment and its solemn discourse.
No owner to be found.
. whimpering bundle;
. rarely loved,
. emptied of life,
. left to lie on the cold and barren ground.
Resolved you sit,
. begging for patience to fill every tear less cry,
Sorrow heaves like vomit
. up through whisper, heart, and broken tongue,
. the only prayers are sighs.
O hear the beating of distant drums
From morbid light to cheerful sun.
Raise your head to see
Your shadow in the hands of the One
. who now stands,
. and by your side,
. picks you up to breathe.
Picks you up to give you life;
. Life emptied of lifelessness,
. Like day emptied of night.
‘And behold, a leper came to him and knelt before him, saying, “Lord, if you will, you can make me clean.” And Jesus stretched out his hand and touched him, saying, “I will; be clean.” And immediately his leprosy was cleansed.’
(Matthew 8:2-3, ESV)
Image credit: Rembrandt, The Leper at Capernaum, 1657-60