You are on the train that says
"I am not running out of rope."
Because of these things they're yours
no eye lines, no cell seen dying.
You soak them in yourself
of a false permanence.
Still, you, them, and me are always dying
With dust falling from us each step.
An inch from Where the Earth crests and ends
Where we all go and divert
Where the shadow consumes some
and for others merely passes.
You shine for a mere convincing second before you die.
There is no quaint Jesus here, only a real live God.
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