The sweet nectar of grace falls from heaven as redemptive rain.

The height of paradox–a world drunk in drought, an anorexic stout, a thankful pout, a silent shout.

The wind turns purple, holding its breath, waiting in vain.

O Redeemer: will You ever come, again?

Rumours of apocalypse dispatch with no sign of a Saviour

As psychological certainty feigns to have a heavenly flavour.

It seems we’re alone, but, in fact, we are one;

A bright yellow sun escapes no one.

Myths and legends are born and scourned–Achilles and Helen of Troy.

But only the crimson blood of heaven’s Son can mend the hole of life’s torn corduroy.


Chester Delagneau

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