Pursuit

It’s our hound of the Baskervilles,

pursuing across the moors

of all our hells; hot breath

on our heels, ever ready

to pounce upon our fleeing spirits.

All the while we run, breathless,

with coronary percussion

nearly shattering eardrums,

as we imagine divine retribution

for the worst of who we are,

carried as hideous secret

between self and God.

The assault turns out to be,

not angry attack, but long-lost love;

canine slobbering reunion,

welcoming us to the gift of forgiveness,

which we've mistaken as surprise party.

It’s the offering we have

repeatedly and summarily dismissed.

In spite of the hope-engraved invitation,

messiah-delivered daily, we've settled

for the guilt of accusations addressed

only to "Current Occupant".

When will we realize

that the only pursuit that matters

is the steadfast one of Grace?

© 2013 Todd Jenkins