Bullock cart
A lame man riding through the dark
in the bed of a bullock cart, a pummeling
with each pothole, road rut;
the destination vague and remote.
No stopping, no turning back.
A perfect One leads the way
telling stories, singing ballads
of the valiant and the persistent.
My Lord gave the lepers comfort, not healing.
The cure was there already, in the process of time,
in the death of diseased bodies and the taking
of new ones. Comfort
was His gift.
In the dark, nursing my wounds,
I see clearly now my own eventual cure
somewhere beyond the thumps of time and distance,
assured by the promise and nature of the malady.
As I listen to my Lord’s songs,
hold His hand, sup from His spoon,
the old cart shudders, rumbles along, winding its way
towards dawn and those inevitable, far-away gates.
O child of God, Meher says every bump in the road
is a shedding and a shaping of your eventual perfection.
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