Us, the Linen Belt

And he funnels his flames down upon us as

we forget to throw away our carvings and

wood chips and blueprints of grim faces with

odd metal piercing. And one man has a shield.

The shield is fireproof and, although the man

makes desperate attempts to aid the carpenters

of a similar stature to his own, the circumference

of the shield is merely large enough to defend

his own hairs on top of his own oiled head.

And He will know this and understand this

but will not, does not relent - for though the

carvings and the blueprints have disappeared,

like any nail biting habit, they will arise again

when the atmosphere proves to be

comfortable enough once more.

So it is unfortunate to remark: "Drought,

Famine, Sword, Drought, Famine, Sword,"

But we are clingers to our deceits and

the shield-wielding man is a clinger to his

shield, and his mercy, and his Father, of whom

requires no blueprints or metallic piercing.

But what else can He do but to refine and test,

refine and test? Yet even in those days He will

not destroy them completely, and the shielded

man will feel much better. He will indeed, feel

much better about the ragged linen belt about

his middle.