Yom Kippur fresh in mind, a man in suit and
kippah strides with purpose across the park to synagogue as the early sun pierces in long streaks of gold and crimson through the maple canopy. Rockets fall on Israel, bullets riddle cars, infiltrators invade homes and take children hostage, hundreds on both sides lie dead. Sit, face the rising sun, count the dew drops sparking with fresh fire on each blade of grass. Watch how the fires trickle down each stem to penetrate the ground, God’s way, and chase through rhizomes to feed green fields that rise as a growing mass of worship. My God! If you should evoke such love from fields of grass, how much more from man as one to be so loved?
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