As Sure as Eggs is Eggs (Aching Men's Feet)

So our Lenten stroll through the world of Genesis is over. And Supper's Ready comes to an end, as does the universe. As Max Quordlepleen once said, it's too late to worry about whether you left the gas on now.

All the oppressors of the world come together and the birds feast on their flesh. All that hate the Lord are wiped away by the One whose tongue is the two-edged sword of his Spirit.

We have found our way, I and both the readers who've stuck in with it, from Genesis to Revelation. We have strolled with Albion, fought with East End Villains (now doing time for the Hatton Garden heist, as it goes). We have gone from a burning rope to a musical box - dodged the giant hogweed and decided not to mess with the Slippermen.

And now we come, with squonks, nymphs, Pythagoras, shrouded saints and all the company of God's people and we see a great sight.

A harvest feast, lit by candle-light. A table, now faded, where once a meal was eaten. Two loyal souls heading for church on a Sunday evening. And a quiet meal with friends on a Thursday night, the hope of the years of the Children of Israel become together something much greater.

All hate and fear are over. The river of God brings our healing, and we can come to the place we can only ever imagine, and sometimes just glimpse in a hymn; a word; a picture; bread and wine; another human in need. A place we realise is, in fact, home.

Supper's Ready.