aug 17, 2011
―Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,
Through the dear might …
―Turn over, Stephen said quietly. I don’t see anything.
―What, sir? Talbot asked simply, bending forward.
His hand turned the page over. He leaned back and went on again, having just
remembered. Of him that walked the waves. Here also over these craven hearts his
shadow lies and on the scoffer’s heart and lips and on mine. It lies upon their eager faces
who offered him a coin of the tribute. To Caesar what is Caesar’s, to God what is God’s. A
long look from dark eyes, a riddling sentence to be woven and woven on the church’s
Riddle me, riddle me, Randy Ro.
My Father gave me seeds to sow.
Talbot slid his closed book into his satchel.
―Have I heard all? Stephen asked.
―Yes, sir. Hockey at ten, sir.
―Half day, sir. Thursday.
―Who can answer a riddle? Stephen asked.
They bundled their books away, pencils clacking, pages rustling. Crowding together they
strapped and buckled their satchels, all gabbling gaily:
―A riddle, sir? Ask me, sir.
―O, ask me, sir.
―A hard one, sir.
―This is the riddle, Stephen said:”
Stephen is a somewhat merciful teacher. Musings on Jesus, government, and riddles.