Neither mystic nor angel, I walk the road of God with blisters on my feet, and thorns in my flesh. I fall and rise, fall and rise. In my wounds are worlds that have come unwound, and I suspect I will remain a stranger, a shadow to all I pass, until His presence powers every step. It's His wounds that made the road holy, wholly worth the long journey past all the nails of self. I must learn to sing through the fire with His voice, lean only in the direction of His everlasting love.