My worldly discussions are ready to be won
by a strike out artist without sin,
without an earned run to his name.
How can Jesus so completely shut down the opposition
in a contest that began with the national anthem
of the big bang?
We're beginning to get on friendly terms.
The conversation is getting kindled.
I'm climbing a tree to get a better view of the bullpen.
I'm watching a relief ace who was here before
the pastime was drawing crowds eager to see
the afternoon saved by the crack of a bat.
In the bullpen, the pitcher and catcher are having a toss
as casual as dress down day.
We are learning the game as it was discovered
in one of Leonardo de Vinci's sketchbooks.
Did the workhorse get his team through the initial innings
with his pitcher's will alone?
Whatever we have is not enough,
but someone wants us to place our trust
in a save situation.
Jesus is a relief pitcher.
How present we are when we gaze into His specialist's eyes.
The Son of Man gets the call from upstairs.
He trots onto the field with many numbers on His back.
The opposition laughs nervously at His flowing robes.
It's an honor to strike out against the game's leading closer.
We go deep in the count as Jesus brushes the corners of the plate.
The pitches glide with the natural seconds of His reaction.
The letters of redemption are written across His chest.