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Sewer Dove

 There is a Dove. 

White as lightning. 

My chest is a cage. 

Sometimes I feel

The rustle and flutter

Of the Beautiful;

Or hear a song 

Down there. 

I am not righteous. 

My heart feels like a coarse

Stone, and I am not

Good. Never was. 

Goodness is not

What we are. It is 

What we are given. A gift. 

Wrap both arms and 

Chin around it; like

The shiniest of things. 

I am the vagabond

Living under the city.

Dark, cold tunnels.

Thick fingers caked

With the unthinkable

Places I reach into. 

And Jesus Christ

Is the unexpected

Dove, who flew down

One day, into these sewers.

And never left.  Funny how

This sewer is my chest. 

The sewer grate above me

My ribcage. My heartbeat

The trickling seconds.   

Sometimes my Dove is quiet and still.

My dim eyes squint, searching

To see if He has left me.  

But sometimes He sings. 

In a voice like thunder and

Rivers and sunlight lacing

The frazzled heads of dandelions. 

A voice so warm you just

Want to wrap it around you

And around you. All the time.  

And if you knew of me,  

Knew I lived down here, and you 

Bent down to listen at the street grate, 

And you heard that singing, 

You might just think

It was me down here 

Singing that way.  

That might be easier to believe

Than a perfect purity descending into a sewer.   

But the truth is, we love a brazen God,

Open faced, we behold Him,

He is not afraid

Of our messy dwelling;

Our filthy hands, 

Or our bloody crimes. 

He would go so far

As to dwell in sewers

For the sake of His love, 

For the greatness of His name:


.. Christ in you, the hope of glory. [Colossians 1:21b]

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