If you take a snake and release it from two dainty fingers into a cage with gaps between the bars big enough for your things to get stuck in, is any part of your soul relieved?
Why not clutch the enemy tighter to your chest with a grip on its head instead?
The most I want to partake in the excavation of my mind is the belay. The entrance is no bigger than a circular sewer gate. Some volunteer, maybe Jesus, will find himself strapped in a mangled mess of unorthodox knots and tangles, assembled by yours truly, as I lower him into a cavern of thoughts to find the the words squeezed between the veins of highly compressed earth (denial), hardened minerals (grudges), reinforced steel (bad habits), their value determined by microscopic traces of truth. Using nothing but tweezers to extract, a grain of sand shifts and the cavern opening enlarges. Rocks tumble and the floor disintegrates; I lose my footing and I let go of the rope; Jesus falls into the pit but I sink more quickly because a shadow is latched around my waist, pulling me downwards and exceeding the speed of gravity. An audience of people I've hurt, people I've rejected, and people who still wait on my emails slowly assemble around the giant hole in the ground and they silently watch me fall - some waiting for me to stretch out my hand to them, some waiting to see if I have enough anguish on my face before they toss the rope they're holding behind their backs.
I keep falling and I'm about to surpass Jesus in terms of feet descended when I'm caught in the rhythm of grace.
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