Unstained Imagination

Look upon the wildflowers.

Their splendor blossoms of out an unblemished imagination

filled by their Creator.

Listen to the sparrow.

For even in its hollow fragility

he fills the day with song

because the joy of the Lord is his strength.

Why does man,

created just a little lower than Elohim,

riddle himself with fears and anxieties

both day and night?

It is because his vision is stained,

so he stains his imagination.

When he hears "no condemnation for those in Christ Jesus,"

he laments.

For all around him he both sees and hears:

Condemnation.

When he is told that his word can move mountains,

he laughs.

For if those closest to him do not listen,

why would a mountain?

Yet man is not called to walk by vision,

he is called to walk by faith.

Faith in paradoxical blood that washes him hour by hour.

How can it be,

that by the richest of crimson

is the purest spirit born?

For if by this blood I was saved,

surely can my imagination it wash!

An imagination where love is planted firmly

as a tree.

An imagination where truth and grace rule freely,

abiding in the sacred covenant into which they were born.

An imagination where the Son shines eternally,

casting out every shadow.

An imagination unstained.

Unstained by hurt.

Unstained by lies.

Unstained by heartbreak.

Unstained by goodbyes.

An imagination unstained.