To us, left here breathless
The bear trap of mortality — human fragility, the carbon bonds that make us flesh and bone — snapped wrongfully. It caught the wrong prey.
And it shocks us and brings us suddenly out of dreaming. That physical trap, subject to natural rules — made of steel — is a thoughtless, unfeeling machine. And an animal has no soul that I know of.
But the spirit of a man cannot be so carelessly or easily extinguished. It cannot be caught, subjugated, or stamped out by such a trap. The spirit is inseparable from the Creator.
A poem doesn’t cease to exist when the manuscript is lost, burned or blown away by the wind, fragile as it is. It lives on in the hearts of the readers who share it, cherish it; who memorize and study it; who silently breathe its stanzas into the dark . It lives on in the hearts of those for whom it was a torch to light the unknown, a strong ship to explore the edges of map shrouded in fog.
In this, the Gospel — the truth of eternity — is made tangible. A man’s life is sacred text in a way a book could never be. And the true poem — the Author’s epic is His to tell. He doesn’t forget the lines, and His creative power ceaselessly is.
And so the poem is indelible.
It isn’t in the past or yet to come, but swells to life in the fullness of Now with the Author’s telling — even in the quietest voice.
That power that lives in a man’s chest — that clarity of who he is and what he does; the spirit that cries out from a place deeper still; that meaning hidden inside and yet beyond what is ever written or uttered or done — lives on and is inexplicable and incalculable Hope and Good News to us, left here breathless.