Miscellaneous

Therefore, let it be known that all of the following works were written by Jonathan McNeill on various dates. He owns the rights to all of them, and did them as a service for no one. If you would like to use any part of these works you are required by law and conscience to contact Jonathan McNeill and obtain his permission. To contact Mr. McNeill send an e-mail to finalrain@hotmail.com

Everything out here seems to be following a set rhythm or beat. It's like listening to a bizarre electric drum set. Of course, now my words are dried up and I can think of little else to say. It seems I never have enough to say.

I want to write, and I loose my words. I'm not brave enough to put my thoughts on paper. Afraid I'll loose some thought too grande, or with my words cause wounds too deep to heal. Or perhaps, like my chirping insects, I'll go unnoticed entirely, and have wasted my ink. Maybe the only wast of ink is to write things that I despise.

Perhaps this is the same as life, and why I dislike mine. Should we all only write the life that we can at least be proud of? Shouldn't every part be something we can look back on and be happy that we lived so? We shouldn't toil for nothing, no hardship ventured for no gain, at least in pride. There are many pains that I have lived through for which I can take no pride. Worthless jobs that I hated and terrible people I've served and debased myself for. All this without any gain that I can see.

Perhaps the earlier hours of those struggles have produced some strengths of character that weren't there before. However, after these first few months in each of these, there was nothing else to be gained. No profit, only lost time . . . wasted time. If time was currency, I've spent the fool's amount in worthless trouble.

"Will you heal my pain and bring an end to the shame I feel so deep within this heart of mine?" I would my sins had and end of their days, and my sorrow sings notes so sweet, when I am at my least, You are at your greatest.

I write this prose upon the papers of a blank and empty life while you write an unending love onto an undeserving heart.

A parchment sits, unfurled, on the desk. It is covered with the words of a spell, cast by the evil of days gone by and days going by.

But this parchment is covered in drops of blood, long dried. The blood dried almost before it touched the parchment, and the power of the spell is broken. The spell is broken by the blood of a perfect lamb, sacrificed by the hands of heathens, but offered by the hand of the divine, living God.

I find my joy in sorrow, and my pain in my greatest pleasures. I opened a door and peered into the darkness and saw the light. This I know, what was light to my eyes is dark, and in the night I have found light, true light. It stands stark against its backdrop, and dares the darkness to cross its boundaries. The darkness cannot pass its boundaries, and the light overcomes it. The light I once knew pales in comparison to this single flame from a tiny candle. The light from the candle is real, the light I once knew is not. The answers I gave myself were all wrong, and their wisdom is utter nonsense. This I know, and nothing more, the son of the Most High God offered his life for mine that I might be free, to serve him.

The night air was cooled with the touch of early summer, moon ensconced in a thick haze. Like ships on a still ocean, they were each alone. Each unaware of the damage and sorrow they wrought in passing, yet keenly aware of their own pain and wounds. So willing to harm, and so pained by the wounds each received.

"Welcome to the trials," a voice seemed to say to each wandering vessel, "You'll find no port of haven here," it continued as each prepared to take victim. Thus each was near-destroyed, while near-destroying another.

Cry "pain, oh pain," and forgetting all they had caused. Morning no nearer than before, some ships were sinking, death was emminent in approach. This single moment stretched on in an eternity, as men began to breath the water. A silent panic arose in each, but they kept quite for fear of noise. As terrifying as silence, more so would be the deaths of all aloud.

In these trying, hurtful times we find ourselves affected by every little thing. In each passing phrase, infinite meaning is perceived, a single word oft ends a life. It is not the word that ends the life, it is not the word in itself that affects, it is the meaning given to it by those who speak and by those who listen. Words said with hate, no matter how kind in form and substance, will show forth the hate bourne in them. Likewise, words with the force of love behind them will show forth love, though they be as harsh as hardened steel.

What is the force behind the words, "Father, forgive them"? Are these words of love? Said by one who loves? Yes. And in these words more meaning is found than in any three other words that have in history been combined. They are the words of life, spoken with the force of the ultimate love.

This love was given by the most ultimate in all creation, by he who was not created. Think about it, the ultimate did that for you. The words spoken with the highest force of love were spoken to those who least deserved them. To those who would slay the Son of God.

No creature living can lay claim to having done worse than those men who nailed Jesus to a cross, and yet, love was extended to them. Can anyone alive refuse the love of God saying, "God will never accept me"? NO! If God would forgive those who slew his son, will he not forgive any of us?

He will forgive any who ask, any who are willing. Any.