Street Preacher

He shouts like the others, ignores the same sneers. I reject him at first, then stop and turn back with a taste in my head of new wine and salt: “This evil you see all around you,” he says— “dead babies, cancer, and such— God planted its seed at the start, then let it continue in spite of Himself, as if blind, with scant little action to stop it. “To make matters worse, when I throw up a ‘Why?’ He seldom obliges an answer at all. “So point up a finger if it makes you upset. He’s up there alright, and joins your disgust. “But rather than end it, He took it one day, took evil upon Him, a cross and a grave, said, ‘Trust Me and you can conquer it too.’ “Complain if you want, but remember too that whatever evil you do, that too has been nailed, forgiven, and lost.” It was dark as I left him, not light as before, but a lingering taste as of supper and wine.