Thrasher's Call

The narrow gate is overgrown, its verdant path ill-used, now fen. My footsteps reach its earth — alone? — but no; the wearing treads of “thens”, of bygone saints. Are all dry bones who bear against the pressing din of cries to hate, or else condone; who lives that lets love cover sin?

To be paired with 1 Peter 4:1-8