Glasshouses

It all looks so clear from your glass house on the hill. If they would only work harder, work smarter, get an education. This good life could be theirs too. The lights are on in the glass house, but no one is home. Cannot see oppression from way up there. You cannot smell the foul odor of injustice. You cannot reach it. Cannot grasp it. Cannot extract it’s root, set so deep underground. Underground… hmm. No, you cannot from that perspective, standing in your glass house, up on the hill.

Drive by. Windows up. Doors locked. Bible on the seat. Smith and Wesson in your belt. Never at night. No, never in the dark. Still behind glass, looking out the window. Looking down your nose. Armchair quarterback lives up on the hill. In a glass house built on sand. One good storm can wash it away. It hasn’t rained for years, up on that hill. Nothing to wash the windows. Nothing to cloud the view from your glass house, up on the hill.

Lights are on. No one is home. Not bright enough to be a beacon, a lighthouse. Just a glass house, so far away. Not bright enough to illuminate the rock hard ground below. Where fear lives next door and comes knocking, whenever it pleases. Shaking you from your bed to your knees. On your knees, on solid ground. A root of faith, struggling to bloom in a bed of thorns. In the shadow of the hill.

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