It joined us together, the well;
the well led me into you
No one between us but light
deep in the well, the pupil of the eye
set in an orbit of stones.

Within your eyes, I,
drawn by the well,
am enclosed.

This they seem to say,
the people from the wall of evening:
Don’t think You walk alone. You have companions
such as I, changed by your meditation
in us, yes, your meditation in us,
as if a word, a frail word was simply grafted,
grafted on to the brightness -
yes, such as I,
raised in the dark of trampled stars.

That woman is among the people from
the wall of evening
And He is now speaking to them
through her:
You don’t walk alone, ever.
Not for a moment, never
is my profile separate from you
and in you it becomes truth,
it always becomes truth
and the tearing so deep,
of your living wave.

My face is scorched by the desert,
deep in your souls,
and is always blown away
by the breathing of your tired sleep.
Why don’t you take your own cross
out of me, as I took mine from you?
when it was burning in your arms, hanging
in your heavy breath.

They:
When in this sad wall of evening
you find our faces, slippery
from the light of many lamps,
like fishes’ flesh -
but blood, we have blood,
we could strike blows with blood!

He:
I have come to outweigh
blood with blood
I have come to seek
weariness, being like you.

To see like this, inwardly, none of us dares.
His recognition was different. He hardly raised his eyes.
He was a great gathering of perception -
like the well blowing the brightness of water
into a face.
He had a mirror – like the well – shining deep.
For him no need to come out of himself or
raise his eyes to guess.
He saw me in himself, possessed me
in himself.
He suffused me with ease,
burst my shame in me and the thoughts
I’d suppressed for so long.
As if he – touching a rhythm in my temples -
all of a sudden
carried that great exhaustion
in me, with such care
Words were simple. The walked beside me
like charmed sheep.
But within me they take off:
dozing birds from their nests.

He was whole in my sin and my secret.

Tell me, this must have hurt, must have weighed
(thought-waves fall heavy, a metal lid) -
You keep silent, but today I know – open for ever
by your word – that I did not suffer in You
to my full measure.
Tell me – my love today
wants to bring back that pain,
take it from You and wind it round again
like a sharp band.

Too late. Every pain today
returning from You,
changes to love on its way.

Such a shortcut, such goodness of perception!
An You did not even raise your eyes.
You talked to me only with those eyes
which the well re-created
in its deep brightness.

From this moment my ignorance
closes behind me like the door
through which you entered, recognizing
all I do not know.
And through me you led many people in silence,
many roads, and the turmoil of the streets.

Transparent after fresh rain, the stones glisten
as each passing step touches them slightly.
Soon in will be evening. Banging. Doors open.
How many people will enter? How many will
thaw in the light from the windows?
Evening has come. Now and again the face
of a passer-by opens the human wall – then
window lights carry it over
to some other place nearby.
The wall now contracts, now widens; still the same.
Eyes can break out of the dark, only just -
the wall is easy.

But, I tell you, your sight alone
scarcely catches people as they flow
on the wave of fluorescent lights.
They are revealed by what is most concealed
within them, that which no flame
will burn out.

When your eyes are half-closed, space
fills again with substance beyond understanding -
the darkness of men is drawn back
cradling that goodness
which feeds you from each in the crowd
as long as you are silent,
which your shouts
turn to dust.

No, no, it is not simply you, each of you,
and were it so,
your presence not only exists, it reveals.

And yet – if eyes could only be opened
not from habit, but differently;
then, then not to forget
their vision filled with delight.

Look now at the silver scales in the water
where the depth trembles
like the retina of an eye recording an image.

With the broad leaves’ reflection
touching your face
water washes tiredness round your eyes.

Still far from the spring.

Tired eyes are the sign
that the night’s dark waters
flow through words into prayer.

(Consider how arid, how arid our souls.)

The light from the well pulsates with tears:
a gust of dreams,
passers-by think, brought them down.

The well sparkles with leaves that leap
to your eyes. Reflected green
glints round your face
in the shimmering depth.

How far to the spring?

Multitudes tremble in you, transfixed
by the light of your words
as eyes by the brightness of water.

You know them in weariness. You know them in light.

“In one way, we should wonder why the forgiveness of the Amish surprises anyone. It’s nothing but the Gospel, although, admittedly an all-too-rare instance of its full practice. But why don’t Christianity’s bitter critics understand that the practice of love and forgiveness are hallmarks of Christianity, real Christianity. Because we Christians do not truly understand the tenets of our faith and therefore cannot live the faith.”

If Colson is right (and I have a hunch that he is more correct than I want him to be), then I’ve got a lot of work to do as one whose job it is to help people grow and mature in their faith. So, as I mentioned in my last post, if you’re up for the challenge, pick up a copy of “The Faith,” and join this blog conversation. A couple of things I have learned along the way is that I’m never done learning and growing in what it means to follow Jesus, and you are never too late or too far behind to begin grappling with the big (and small) questions of faith. I hope you’ll join the journey.