He took me in his hand and said, "You are my signet ring, son of David." And warm though his ancient loving voice, I gulped dust at the sound of my ancient father's name, swam in the expanse between his day and mine, choked on the bitterness of dead promise.
"You are my signet ring," he said, "I will scorch you as wax and you shall seal these words, shall sign with my sign that I shall do this." O God, my bones cried could it be? Still Jerusalem's broken walls rent me. Still I cried at memory of Babylon. "I will," he said, in a voice of silent thunder. "And you are my seal. And this you will seal:
To the weak ones, the dead and dying, the weeping, the starving, the retching ones, the wretched, the righteous, the strong, the strong-willed, the hoping hopeless, to Leah and Rachel, to Tamar and Judah, to Sarah and Hagar, to Solomon and Sheba and Bathsheba.
I send you as a seal on this scroll, to gospel, to console. What is broken will be whole." And he scorched me in the flames. I was wax, I was waiting. All the while he sealed me, sealed the promise within me and behold the wax dripped like blood, and behold it was good.