Written on the 18th of August 2010
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I walked upon the snowy shore.
The sand was soft for bloodied feet.
I stooped and gathered, felt the grain
Fall a white and pure sheet.
My house shall be of this I said.
My palace glorious to stand
High and white and soft and clean
The glory of this pure white sand.
I gathered the grains from near and far.
I moulded them to my hand.
Brick by brick I built my home
Soft white upon a softer land.
At last my palace rose above
Grand and spacious in breadth and girth
So smooth the grain- no brick had cut
The wounded hands that gave it birth.
I trod within the terraced halls.
And looked with pride upon my own.
The soft white sand absorbed my pain
And made for it a home.
Beautiful palace, so soft and white
So tender on my feet
My hands were sore- but wounded more
Was the heart within that beat.
I feared the billows in the dark.
I fled in terror from the gale.
In desolation I stood and watched
The soft white sand assailed.
I acted with a frantic haste
I gathered the white clay in my hands
I packed it on the walls of waste
To barricade my house of sand.
The sea died and again I stood
And looked upon the sand
Alas the torn battlements!
The palace which stood so grand!
Large gaping holes in every wake
Left me open to the world
The walls were weak and now fell
At every stone they hurled.
In vain I lifted aching arms
Exposed upon the crest
The soft white sand beneath my feet
Yielded me no rest.
And then a Stranger came and spoke
His feet were bloody on the sand.
He was bleeding from his side and feet
And bleeding from his hands.
I've hewn for thee a home, He said
Among the rocks upon the hill
Thou mayest shelter there in peace
I bid thee come and there be still.
I stood in silence and dared not speak.
And dared not lift my eyes.
I saw the wounded feet and hands
And heard his voice again- surprised.
My feet are wearied of the task
Of hewing stone from stone
The rough boulders I have smoothed
With bloodied hands I made thy home.
Trust the One Who cares for thee
Enough to bear thy pain
Thy loss is no loss indeed
If My love in thy losing gain.
I saw He was no Stranger then
(Stranger to me, perhaps, for shame)
For I had heard Him near and far
And spoke Him oft' by name.
He knew me, as I knew not Him
He knew my pain and fear
In very tenderness He came.
His compassion drew Him near.
He took my hand in His and drew me over
The white soft sands and away
They fell beneath my shrinking feet
From pure white to clay.