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Not the Prodigal

Father, I cannot speak for
your love overwhelms me.
A consenting thank you
merely forms in my throat.

For you picked me up in the
silence of my pain and sin;
you carried me on your
shoulders, found me when
I was lost.

Your unceasing love found
me! It wasn’t me; not the

Who is the star of my story?
Of your story? It is not about
me; it is not about you beloved
reader. And, not the prodigal.

It is about the love of the father
who gave his son; a shepherd
whose love wipes away the
tears of life and has defeated

Our last breath here is our first
breath there with the Christ to
whom we gave our consent to
be loved.

So that he could pick us up
and carry us on his shoulders
from this year into the next.

Categories: Poetry

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Poet, Writer, US Army (Retired)

I dreamed of writing when I was a youngster. The love of books and writing may have helped to dull the pain of severe sexual abuse as I was sexually abused by two men at my father’s place of work from age 8 to 12 or so. I learned about this for the first time when I was 50 years old. So, as a boy, reading was the only place I had to go to. My fantasy world was better and safer than my real world. I loved reading and writing.
Reading books and writing poetry are a joy to me still and are an important part of my life. (See my About Me page on my blog for the complete profile.)

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