This land is scarred with His memory,
Touched by His life,
telling of blue night with stars
near to barren hillside where
sheep gather and
foreign tongues tell softly
Hearts learn rhythm of Galilee’s shore,
Waves coming, rolling, then turning back like
Rustling crowds moving through ancient markets,
Almost tasting smells of wood near
Carpenter’s shop—shavings fall in piles,
Rough bark and white wood
gnarling, twisting agony in a garden
scarred by Him—born in a stable.
This land heard, and remembers, and
Aches for Him.
The wind tells His story.