Sent Two by Two                                               

Bare feet on the road, dust rising slow,

the air thick with the scent of bread and olives;

a sparrow darts from fig to fig,

its wings a hymn no temple taught.

They carry no purse, no spare cloak—

only the weightless wealth of peace,

and the strange authority of mercy

that makes the blind lift their heads to light.

In every doorway, a choice:

to open, or to turn away.

Yet even the closed heart

cannot keep the kingdom from drawing near.

Bread for the Journey

The fields are wide with whispering grain,

each stalk a psalm in the wind’s soft hand;

the sun spills gold on the furrowed plain,

and mercy walks across the land.

The Shepherd calls with a voice like rain,

drawing the weary from dust and stone;

He binds the wounds, He lifts the lame,

and claims the lost as His very own.

The harvest waits, yet the workers few—

still, love will send them, heart to flame;

to speak of skies forever new,

and heal in the Healer’s holy name.