How strange to end as it began. . .
bereft of hope amidst their tears . . .
their hope now born for years to come . . .
water flowing from his side
splashing in the dust below
the salty taste of blood and sweat
thirsting for a memory . . .
the Jordan’s bank and the day
his cousin gently laid him back
within the water’s cool embrace
perhaps a vision of his friend
beckoning with outstretched arms . . .
his mother at the cross’ foot
her tears that fell like sun baked stones
from a mother’s broken heart-
the heart of God within her own . . .
watermarks of things to come
a stone rolled silently away
footprints in the morning dew
the only sign, gone by noon,
that he had rested there at all
pointing toward a newborn world
unready for his second birth . . .
unprepared as with his first
questioning as Nicodemus did
“How can one be born again?”
Amniotic . . .
through all time
proof of life that conquers death . . .
the best is always saved for last-
eternal water turned to wine.
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