Rage

Unrighteous rage. There's nothing sadder than an angry old man.  The prime of life has mysteriously drifted away, anticipation of a better future replaced with regret for a wasted life.  He rages silently, impotently, pathetically.

If happiness is a choice, then anger is doubly so. Why would he choose the road of hatred when that gentle path of love, peace and forgiveness is there for the walking?  A bitter valley overhung with gray clouds of distrust lays sullenly between  unscalable unforgiven mountain walls.  There is a silent river here for him to contemplate, it's oily depths churning the dregs of the past over and over.  He loves to sit on its thorny bank, enthroned on a rock of pride, and throw imagined stones to disturb the water into ever widening ripples of punishment.

One small step.  It's a choice he could make. Just one step towards forgiveness, upwards into the clearer air of hope, the green grass of mercy, the bright sunshine of love. But someone has to throw these stones into the river.  They have to - or the stones would be left unthrown, forgotten and rejected. Where's the justice in that?  He knows he would be infinitely happier on the verdant path, but stones need justice, and mercy, and a champion. 

Pride came before the fall.  His valley has a name.  He can hear it spoken as the bitter wind stirs the riverside thorns of gray.  Its name is Fall.

Walk humbly.  They're the boots which will walk the verdant way up to the light.

Love mercy. They're the words and thoughts that make the mind of the man wearing the boots.

Do justly. They're the hands of the man who finally sees that he ought to do unto others as his God has done for him.

Someone told him once that if he left Fall valley, climbed justice path over mercy pass and humbly loved as he is loved, then Fall valley would cease as its sharp boundaring cliffs erode with forgiveness and its sad river of regret clears, its thorny verge blooms with blossoms, and its clouded brow is pierced with warm trusting sunlight.

I must tell the angry old man this tale next time we meet.  I hope he listens to me.