The Stranger’s Hand

There was a little boy, who woke up as a spirit of harmony and verse. He looked out at the world and heard his name on the lungs of a million people as his voice planted explosion in their minds.

But they had not yet exhaled his name nor had shrapnel from their word-blown minds embedded in their sleeping hearts because he had not yet unleashed himself on them.

So the little boy wrote growing, and grew writing: a circus to most of his peers who didn’t know of his dream, or maybe they did; and they enjoyed him because he was so enjoyable.

Soon the little boy was ready, he wanted to solve so many problems, he wanted to have so many things. He sought his parents to use their power, because he thought, ‘They’ll be so proud of me.’ His mother smiled at him and died. His Father said, ‘First, Go! Finish school.’

So the little boy suppressed his zest as ransacked some scholar nests; to find the eggs, so-called ‘Certificates’. All the while watching the Stars, he grew writing and wrote growing.

One day the school told him, ‘You’re useless! You, get out from here! Scum like you should to be forgotten.’ He hung his head, but there was a knock, and off he went back into obscurity because he could not conform.

Days and weeks stretched their legs and woke months and years, but there was a knock. He’d lost his pen and found some bottles who introduced him to clans of leaves and nameless pharmacists, but there was a knock.

Soon there was a girl, naive and pretty, but there was a knock. She also grew and soon she turned him from a little boy to a broken man, but there was a knock.

The broken man searched for happiness and found life’s transcendence, but there was a knock. He thought up a way to make enough wealth for himself and his own after his own after him, but there was a knock.

So the Broken Man began to carry out his plan. His friends, the bottles, the leaves and the nameless pharmacists all promised to be there for him, but there was a knock.

The knock, resounding and intriguing, finally caught The Broken Man’s attention. He opened his heart and listened to the stranger’s stories of an invisible Kingdom, its Eternal King and His children.

‘You are one of those Children,’ The Stranger said, ‘ It is time you stop struggling and come home to Your Father’s love and provision.’ ‘But I am no longer a stainless little boy, I am a harmful, broken man.’

‘Don’t say that,’ the Stranger said, ‘All your debts of wrong have been paid off. All you have to do is be courageous and take my hand. Let us begin your next adventures.’

Years later, the broken man woke up as a prince of harmony and verse. He spoke and his words sliced through bones and Spirits, delapidating strongholds, but there weren’t his words; because he had taken the Stranger’s hand, the stranger unleashed him on the world.

The Man of Harmony and Verse would mould explosions out of words, but they weren’t his words.
They were God’s Word, for He sent the stranger and He is the Father.

And this is the name the people exhale when their hearts are tattooed by God’s loving embrace, and this is the name that the Spirit of harmony and verse set above all, the Stranger’s name: Jesus, the Beginning…And the End.

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