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Hast the peace of the garden not fallen

from  the grasp of our own hand,

will nothing more than thistles and

thorns become fruit by man so grand?

Left on his own to find rest and peace…

it would be monumental, a herculean task,

for it would be based on conjecture and

assumed to be befitting consumption, a mask,

there would be nothing but God Himself to

fill the void… the space of then and here,

for man can do nothing without Jesus present…

this resounds throughout time, the message clear,

man still tries, in his scorn, to place the crown

on Christ’s brow… the one made of thorns,

and will try with his last breath to take the

rightful place of He who commands the horns,

the horns, the trumpet call… the seals on

God’s Earth opened, complete dissatisfaction,

comes the ignorance and plight of man’s

miscalculation, forced to God’s conclusion…

the sardonic laugh of the liar’s prodigal son

ever heard in the shadows of man’s slight delight,

the same thing happened to Jesus, on the night

of His betrayal, as Judas gained silver in his sight,

the garden… the garden protected by God

from the outside in… but a memory of sin,

man to wait for God’s clarion call… the horns

to blow, the seals broken… our chagrin,

this is what awaits us… three doors down

and a horizon away from where we are now,

God’s day to come- the other shoe to drop

and man’s jaw… to wonder, last seen,” the how.”