The Singer

It's a poetic narrative by Calvin Miller. I found it one night last week in Jen's bookshelf and read the entire thing that night.

"What would you like to be when you grow up, little girl?"

"Alive."
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"But the word... the word they wrote upon your face is gone."

The Singer reached up to his forhead where the searing iron had left the accusation of the council. The word was gone indeed.

"It is," he said, "because Earthmaker cannot bear a lie. He could not let me wear the word for He is Truth. He knows no contradiction in himself. So learn this, my little friend, no man may burn a label into flesh and make it stay when heaven disagrees."
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If she has loved him, a man will carry anything for his mother - a waterpot or a world.
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Never had he been the way he walked, yet his feet knew every step. He could not cease to marvel how they moved his body forward through the mist of circumstances which he vaguely knew by name.
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Blessed are those who die for reasons that are real, for they themselves are real.