chasing truth & making art :: a storytelling blog
vibrant crimson, fragile grey
flesh and spirit divinely knit
but a breath away from the grave
formed from fresh earth-dust
but pressed with the image of God
an olive shoot warmed in summer’s gold
but swept away by a single frost
Photo by Maria Shanina on Unsplash
They do not cry when you cut them,
muted in life
and death.
But what gods are we,
to measure a soul by science,
or days, or sound or sight?
Listen:
to the rending of the conscience,
for the voiceless will not speak.
But what men are we,
to stand by quietly, amid
the silent genocide?
