In synagogue, church and temple, people were gathering for worship. They read their leaders’ letters, broke bread, sang songs and offered prayer. But not John—he stood alone, looking down at scattered stones on barren earth, feeling banished and forlorn.
He wasn’t even sure if he’d heard the voice speak first, sharp-bladed, or was it just the wind. But then he saw the rocks flame like lamps and a priest stood watching in the center of a ring of churches. White-haired, white-robed the priest held the stars of heaven in his hand and spoke to John. “Come,” he said. “Write.”
© Sheila Deeth, April 2009
rate
email
print
link to this page
Comments: 9
Identify this darkroom
Blessings and best wishes - S.