The Book of Images

Man has always pushed his arts to make them move and move us. From cave-drawn mastodons to Odyssey, he always seeks the means. Strip away the preaching, prophecy and teaching, things folks often quibble with. The majority remains— intriguing story, parable and image— visual aids and moving scenes. Sin is crouching at your door, we hear it said to Cain. A tree by living water, says the psalmist of a saint. Like windblown chaff, the wicked are. Like growing fruit, are good men’s deeds. God’s a shield around us with no apology given. And hearing we are salt, conjures preservation or holding back corruption. That wild donkey, Ishmael, Abraham and Hagar bore, how so his seed today? His eye is on the sparrow and sees the one that falls. Hear what you can hear. Lips that drip with honey, the end is bitter gall. Hear with ears to hear. A farmer sows his hard-won seed. Some falls where it cannot grow. But some take root in fertile earth. Without a parable, He hardly spoke. If a priceless treasure hides, buy the land that holds it, no matter what the cost. Wisdom is an ornament draped about your neck, and blameless hands are clean though working in the field. Like a watchman awaits the certain dawn, so live. Like a thief at night, I stole these words, And if faithful, will be stolen too.