People call this life freedom.
Free to do what they want,
when they want.
A freedom of dead ends.
Of wrong turns.
Of hurt.

Hemmed in by the hedges of society,
cultivated over many years by many gardeners.
So thick you cannot see through it.
So high you cannot see over it.

Its direction you are forced to take,
no other does it allow.
A life of endless wandering.
Wandering to try and find the centre of life’s maze.

Most walk past it, overlook it.
It is not what they expect.
Its glory may be hidden,
but the price paid is clear for all to see.
Redemption always comes at a price.

However, for us the real centre of life
is wrapped up in a free gift.
The centre that is another, not us.
The centre that is the paradox of an
innocent dying for the guilty.
Once for all.

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