The wounded gathered round, dragging their brokenness, shell shocked and damaged; dreams dismissed to bedlam as thunderous life blasted and screamed in a clamour of uninvited voices.
Eager ears and searching minds scrambled to your touch, bringing their wounds. Open sores at parade ground attention to be dressed by healing syllables, soothed, made whole.
Rabbi, teacher, your words leave no scars, no irritating itch of knitting tissue nor reminding hurt of bruise or blemish. Bandage and sling, splint and brace pile high beyond this tent of healing; testament to those who overhear your conversation.
I heard your silvered words on this hill, as we munched loaves and fish, but fed upon you.
I heard your silvered words on another hill, a darker vista, as our eyes feasted on the hate of man And you taught another lesson: “Father forgives”.