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These Callused And Comatose Kings

The bus station swarms like a petri dish,
Teeming with life forms odd;
Could these “Sons of Morning” have shouted for joy
Who seem no relation to God?

Hardness and anger, abuse and neglect
Are deep in their features engraved;
And reason, incredulous, stares at the sight;
Could “fair ones” become so depraved?

Did these rise and battle within Kolob’s gate
And cast evil out from their midst?
Did these raise their hand sustaining the plan
For the chance to become such as this?

It’s so incongruent, what was and what is;
These broken who once were the strong.
Bluebloods whose lineage seems so much in vain
Clueless to where they belong.

Their parched lips are thirsty yet, eyes blind and fixed;
They won’t give the fountain a glance.
With spirits disfigured it seems that for these
Redemption does not have a chance.

How will He reach and awaken within
These callused and comatose kings
The vision of all that they’ve been and could be
If they were aware of their wings?

They’ve soared in the heavens, now fallen to earth;
Shuffling sad toward the grave,
Could there still echo His voice through the mist,
Attempting the creature to save?

I KNOW it must be! It CAN’T thusly end!
This play has another act still!
The Master, our hero, has not saved them yet;
Yet somehow I know that He will!

That thief on the cross… he, too, hard and lost,
Gives hope for all crestfallen men;
At another place still, beyond the dread hill
He’d hear from the Savior again.

A spiritual prison is not made of steel
But of ignorance, lies, and despair.
To spirits in prison the crucified Christ
For three days established their care.

The good news continues! The gospel goes on!
The shepherd’s crook pierces the veil
To rescue those missing in action in life,
Breaking the locks of their jail.

For all these were comrades not so long ago
Who valiantly fought for the Son.
And He won’t abandon His friends to the foe;
He’ll fight to the last for each one.

The end does not come to the sheep who are lost
When draw they that long final breath;
Until that concluding millennial day
He’ll labor on both sides of death

To me, in this station, it’s hard to conceive,
Watching such life forms odd
That these “Sons of Morning” once shouted for joy
Who seem no relation to God.

But, yes, these were they, and yet they may be
His royal soldiers and true;
Though hard to envision those things yet to be,
The Captain of Change is not through.

Picture of Wes Stephenson

Wes Stephenson

Author, motorcyclist, poet, and adventurer. Let's journey together.



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