He kept putting himself in the shoes of the damned.
He kept feeling the pain of the restless, the oppressed, the hated, the dirty, the dead and the outcast.
He stood up for those even the holiest refused to look at.
He pointed out flaws in systems that accused the weak of being criminals, and the rich of being Satanists and his aim was to take them all down.
He kept putting himself in the shoes of damned and asking, how does that feel to be in those shoes.
He kept putting himself behind the eyes of the sad and the broken.
And he not only healed them, he not only raised their hands in victory. But he upheld the laws that were supposed to limit that kind of evil incursion.
He put on the robes that were heavy with sweat, and caked with dirt and ripped from their hands.
He walked the streets of the down trodden, he felt their fears, and laughed their joys.
He looked on his representatives with confusion and dismay. They were very passionately, fighting for the wrong team.
He kept putting himself in the shoes of the violent, the pants of the old-fashioned, the told that they were stupid, the raped, the tortured, the lost, the refugee, the impure, the uncomforted, the untrustworthy. The damned.
And he saved them. He championed them. He did good for them.
He didn’t yell and point fingers. He didn’t avoid them on the street. He loved.
And he knew what that meant.
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