Publish the Word
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Yeshua -- 19, Paralytic

In the beginning. . .
was the word

 The Lord gave the word: great was the company of those that published it. Psalms 68:11

 

xix the Paralytic

 

He was weaving an invisible cloth of words

     in the air before them, his voice unspindling

threads of his thought, his hands the loom's

 

shuttles and dowels, and why, some wondered,

     if not for the scribes and doctors of law present

was he absent from his eyes, was he meandering

 

elsewhere in the tucks and folds he spun as he

     spoke?  A commotion of roof, removed tiles,

ceiling of sky, a pallet descending a rope for all

 

who crowded in and left the paralytic out, cold:

     not even the man's cataleptic eyes were alive.

He was stone.  Yeshua said, your sins, friend,

 

are forgiven.  Did an uptake of wind or

     rippled gasp perplex the graybeards?

Such blasphemy was a heyday for a Pharisee.

 

Only G-d could do such.  As if his inner ears

     heard into their minds' each fulminating

thought, Yeshua said, So you may know the Son

 

of man has power on earth to forgive sins,

     get up, take your mat and go home.

The sick man's body shook; his palsy passed.

 

Then the half-dead corpse rose healed.

     From then, his tenured foes hated him

more unconditionally and vowed to unravel

 

his holier-than-thou self sinew by bone by bit.

     Later, along the sand-roiled shore, knee-

deep in surf, did he question his answers or

 

puzzle more over pebbles the moon set aglow?

     Did the angels walking with him comment or

just let the salt-wash and brine foam through them?