Publish the Word
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Yeshua -- 26, Nicodemus

In the beginning. . .
was the word

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

xxvi Nicodemus


He came under midnight's cloak in peasant garb,

      not finery, unannounced, discreet to enter

off a narrow, shadow-strewn side street prowled


by cats.  Rabbi.  From the elite, ruling council,

     he sought counsel.  No one could perform

the miracles Yeshua did unless God were with him.


The son of man knew he knew him and what was

     fact, what flattery:  No one can see God's

kingdom unless he is reborn.  Nicodemous' reply


stuck, unaltered.  He could not conceive his mind

     inside his aged mother's womb.  Water he could

wrestle with, the spirit, too, in theory.  Yeshua said


wind would blow where wind will; the air was nothing

     that moment but stillness.  Spirit gives birth to

spirit.  Which wind did Yeshua hear except the man's


breathing?  Words unreeled in dizzying whirls:  Moses

     lifted up the snake. Who taught who?  He gave

his only son.  He was lost in the desert wind's voice.


Whosoever believes.  Light was metaphor, of course,

    dark, the room's in-betweeness.  Not perish.  What if

he had never really seen?   Everlasting.  He sat blindly


with the blind Sanhedrin.  Flushed, on fire.  He trembled,

     too, an inward quiver.  Who was this Galilean, he

later wondered as he gazed, enthralled by the stars' play


of light in the fields?  He could recite the stones' chipped

     texts ad infinitum.  But this man and the riddles he

engendered:  how such distant pinpricks of flame blazed.