Come, see the rocks I have collected,
look at the rounded shapes,
the intricately layered colors,
feel it cold, hard, smooth,
some are rough, jagged and sharp,
some lack luster, and some shine.
Where did you find these rocks?
were they polished in waters?
as they tumbled in river beds,
they produced the warbling melody,
the bubble, babble, plink, plonk songs,
of the waters rushing over it.
These rocks are the memories,
of the pain stunningly given,
by those who hurled them
while I was buried to the neck
in the troubles of my days,
and the sorrows of my nights.
These rocks were my prayers rising,
my cries for mercy, over, whizzing,
penetrating, and thudding sounds,
the dull, sharp pain and the lights,
the lights that I saw as the warmth,
of my blood, flooded my eyes.
These blood speckled rocks, lay cold,
as My world spun around me,
and my tormentors spun in it,
arms raised in a circle as I grew cold,
they watched and waited for sin to die,
these rocks are the witnesses of sin.
These rocks are colder than people,
who behind a curtained law hid,
deaf, stone cold to Love and Mercy,
and not without sin, they arose,
that day to stone the sinner,
for thus ‘twas writ on paper and in time.
So I brought my rocks to the creator of stars,
these rocks the fragments of some stars,
and my tears were wiped,
and my soul was soothed,
for I died, as did Mercy and Love in hearts that day,
but sin, Sin remained in the world.
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