He sits in His chambers
walls of alternating panels of gold and glass
30 or 40 feet high
it seems
The wooden floor is from every tree in existence
dizzying array of colors – grain - roughness
from wood panel to wood panel
Earth-cut chunks of rubies – emeralds – sapphires
transparent brilliance emanating from His throne
it seems
There are people around Him
surrounding Him like children surround the new boy
dressed like princes and princess
long flowing dresses - glittered necklaces - coiffed hair tailored suits - slicked curls - click-clacking heels
speaking in different dialects
laughing with Him
gushing over Him
cooing over Him
giggling when He says something back
happy – rich – wealthy – perfect
I smell food
delicious – savory - tasty
swirling in the air from a kitchen somewhere
rice and beans - baked chicken - fried plantains
busy waiters carrying food on large trays
serving – leaving – returning with more
carrying flasks of delectable liquids
real wine – real water – real juice
They do not see me
No one does
it seems
I am a servant
a barefoot homely girl in the corner
a brown mouse
hair unloved for years
skin ashen
clothes opaque
I cannot join them
I am inadequate – small - unworthy
I do not call out
I do not say anything
I am resigned to the shadows
Then something happens
He stands up
He steps down from His throne
He walks in my direction
He walks towards me
it seems
He is handsome
brown eyes swimming with green - blue - gray - hazel lips are full and regular
face is middle-aged
tiny wrinkles at the crease of His eyes
He is tall
wearing a simply rich robe
threads unlike anything in existence
shiny, but not too shiny
matte, but not too dull
moving, but not too light
hanging on Him perfectly
His eyes are on me
it seems
I want to believe He is looking at someone behind me
someone above me
someone to my left or my right
I do not want Him to look at me – but really I do
He stops in front of me
it seems
The perfect people follow Him
They are perplexed and curious
They whisper among themselves
They argue among themselves
They fight for position
They ask Him, "which one of us will You choose?"
He reaches out His hand to me
it seems
His sweet eyes encourage me
it seems
My hand trembles
I awkwardly put my hand into His
Then He says, "this one"
YOU ARE READING
Saved By the Blood
شِعرA mix of Christian and secular insightful poetry written by a high school believer between 1990 -1994.
