The mountains do call, the waters do long and yearn, searching the earth and the chasms of the deep, ascending yet to the sun, falling as grace upon my shoulders. The birds do sing, and the trees do breathe and give new breath to men. And the stars that do speak not of another place far off, but of the true destiny of the good, the holy, the mighty from the estrangement from the fate of the bravehearted.
This call is a call not to what is new, but to what is old, unscathed, yet abandoned. It is a return to what we had been and a return to what we would have become, to who we ought to be.
Engraved in bloody and chiseled words in the pained groaning heart of the Almighty is a name, a name that is new yet old. It is a love known to your sinful conscience, a pain to his heart, from birth, the very force that brings guilt to your soul, not living as it ought to, not achieving the heights it had promised the Creator in oathen love, the innocence and sinless love to which it had been in committal, the ascent to a visible height it had not reached, the faithful arrow, launched over lands and moons, that did not hit its target, but gone astray and into endless darkness. It is the name that would tell you who you are or who you would have become, had you not fallen from grace, that when known would bring you to bended knee and in tears with sword beside weld well to merit that day and say, Truly, this is who I have longed to be.
For a name cannot be new truly, only in the newness of transformation, but essentially who we are, always have been, or were promised to become.