Publish the Word
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Yeshua -- 27, Home

In the beginning. . .
was the word

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

xxvii Home

 

How many nights he descended the terraced west slopes

     in solitude as a shadow among lengthening shadows, gnat-

catchers hunting or a fox slinking past Gennesareth's gardens,

 

fields wild with blossomed-out irises, anemones, a circus

     of wind-livened violets, a crisscross of aqueducts, headland

torrents that rose as ghost mist over black rocks.  He crossed

 

the Damascus Road, angled down into glens griffin-like vultures

     patrolled from northern barrens to the south's sheer cliffs. 

The kefir of Nahum -- Capernaum -- necklaced the shore, an

 

embayed gem lit silver, and if clear, he might see an oil lamp

     aglow in the custom house as caravans paid levy or

tradesmen their due. Millions of starfish shimmered the sea

 

silhouettes of skiffs rode, rocking the tetrarch's gilt pinnace

     at anchor or reed boats poling the shallows.  In the heat

his neighbors circled the fountain, clamorous in the commerce

 

of gossip. Though never expected, if back from his rambles

     Yeshua would chat with mothers who pushed forward unwed

daughters or rabbis-in-training who fingered phylacteries and

 

hoped for a little theological tussle.  Smoked, lemon-doused

     sardines were sold if the bazaar stayed open and lentils,

curds, nuts, figs, cloves, herbs, fragrances-- idling to gab was

 

a sense fest.  How he loved the land and these people, so much

     that he wept when he walked out in silence later, when they

trailed him like sheep, his love as consuming as his Father's grief.