Grace and Peace to you.
“Stop making my Father’s house a marketplace!”
I don’t want to have had to beg.
I’ve brought my offering, fair price.
The unknowing face, the curing knife,
the little cry, the pang, parceled out,
not great, but enough to satisfy,
the dark lump in my rough basket.
(Its weight can’t be dismissed,
how it knocked against the crowd.)
But it’s taken at the door,
I have nothing to offer now.
The market’s empty.
There’s no exchange,
only a stillness
in which all is well, already well,
the wound received, unpaid.
a longing met, two hearts rejoined.
There is no market. Just presence.
Only now do I kneel,
with hands less empty than at first,
my priceless heart, my eyes of light.
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