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A walk to Emmaus in the spring:
All seven miles, as your ghost, to you, I cling
I had been laid to rest three months past,
And now you see my ghost as I walk beside your tracks
But you barely recognize this face,
I’m like a stranger in this town; a prophet without a base;
Or just another forgotten crime,
but when I close my eyes I can still see yours pressed up to mine
And my hands, left to idle, trace a mold of your back.
I recall every hill and fold; the shifting and the slack;
The brightness and the blurring; the glory and the shame
Now, set me homeward
Wasn’t your heart still burning inside
When you rolled away the stone and left the door swung wide?
But all the glory bled out
From every wound I marred and every ghost I hung around
This is not the road to Damascus; not bright grace burnt through;
Not a vivid revelation; nor a promise that I’ll be new
Your face turned shyly while your eyes shone with warmth,
“Yes, but that's the beauty of it,”