Standing quietly, watching over the hill filled with monuments to the dead.
Never pausing to rest.
Never seeking shelter from the rain or cold.
Never hiding his eyes from the pain.
Never turning away from the awful grace of God, the savageness of man, the hate we feel for another.
He waits for us to see, he waits for us all to be - the ones who will hold out their hands, in that single act of kindness that can transform the fury, that will transform the suspicion, that will carry us, one and all, to the promised land.
This land of ours, this land of milk and honey, of mercy and love, of forgiveness.
Will we shelter them?
Will we feed them, educate them, listen...when they speak, hear... what they say?
Or will we turn away, turn to stone, and stand on the hill - filled with monuments to the dead?