Dear Father,

Along the shore beside receding waters,

Walking on still wet sand, I saw a man.

Footprints in the sand, made by his soles,

Were being smeared and cleared by

The dragging of his soul

Behind him.

I knew him

To be a good man in all respects

The world saw him, even praised him.

Yet he could not see, nor would believe

That his soul was in his wake,

Torn to pieces with every step

He would take.

I wept,

And I called after him; nevertheless

He cared not to be still or to turn,

Ignoring me behind him, feigning deafness.

In agony I prayed for the soul

That he ignored until I

Was breathless.

I cast

Stone after stone upon him and before him,

Yet he merely winced at the pain, cursing

The stones that cut his feet, never turning.

Cursing the stones, ignoring the sound,

He walked, never lifting his soul

From the ground.

I stopped.

The agony of his soul cried out, screamed

As it was grated and degraded by the stones

In his path and the spaces in between.

He smiled, content to be left alone

To continue his way unmolested -

No voice, no stones.

I left,

Heartbroken that he would not be saved.

His soul no longer able to bear the disgrace

Lifted itself from his dragging grasp and clasped

Its own heart in its vengeful hands.

I heard his body

Hit the sand.

I stood,

Over him to comfort him, gave the chance

For him to apologize and recognize his soul,

That they might be reconciled, yet at a glance

Upon my face he sneered and asked,

"Where were you?" just before

He passed.

I know

That the body dies, but better it be by sand

And stones, not by the choking hands

Of a vengeful soul that will abandon hope,

Fleeing an easy yoke for a hanging rope.

All this I say, sincerely,

Your Son.