Love’s Gate.

We are crafted beautifully, wouldn’t you agree?

Each of us shaped by the hands of a creator,

Not like the others—creations programmed to follow,

To obey a pattern, a code, a narrow path of function.

We, instead, are given something dangerous,

Something wild and untamed:

The freedom to choose.

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What creator does this?

What maker lets his work run free,

Knowing it will fall, knowing it will stray?

Yet, he let us go—not because we asked for freedom,

But because love demanded it.

For what is love, if it’s forced?

What is devotion if it’s bound in chains?

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He saw more than we did, more than the green pastures

Just beyond the barrier.

He saw the end—the snake, the venom, the way we’d wander

Into the wilderness of our own will.

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But still, he let us go,

Calling even from the other side,

Guiding even as we strayed.

Yet our ears were deaf to his whispers,

Our eyes dazzled by the lush fields of freedom.

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And so we wandered further,

Frolicking with the snake in the tall grass,

Taking his venom into our veins.

What was sweet turned bitter,

For freedom twisted under the weight of will.

Now, not free at all,

We are slaves to the serpent’s whispers.

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Every step we take comes at a cost,

Every choice tangled in consequence.

And yet, he still calls us,

Waiting at the love gate,

The gate we have long forgotten.

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If only we could see past the grass,

Look deeper into the heart of love.

But we are blind, lost,

Passing down our tears to the children we leave behind.

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Our freedom fertilizes the ground we tread,

Our mistakes bloom like weeds in the garden of the world.

And our children—innocent, undeserving—

They drink from this poisoned well.

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The venom, once ours,

Now flows in their blood.

The weight of free will falls heavy upon them,

A burden they never chose.

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We cry out in the streets,

Where cancer eats at our bones,

Where disease spreads like wildfire,

Where evil flourishes while good withers.

What have we done to deserve this?

What have the innocent done to inherit such ruin?

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Yet, he calls still—soft, patient,

From the far side of the garden,

From the place we once knew.

If only we would listen,

If only we would turn our eyes

Back to the beginning,

Back to where love first called us.

For even now, amidst the weeds,

There is a path—narrow, hidden,

But there, if only we would look.

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The road is hard, and the pastures lie green,

Tempting still, masking its former pain.

But look within

For love waits,

And love is patient,

Calling us home to peace.

Back to love’s gate where the leaves are truly green—

And all is true and real.