Its funny. When I meet someone , their eyes tell me a lot. The soul is revealed through the eyes, its state manifest publicly, naked before scrutiny. I search to penetrate with mine, I want to see what is there. I want to know you.
I have observed much; in others and also in myself. I have become a student of myself, observing my reactions as one who stands outside himself, searching the depths of my own being. But often in darkness I plumb as the illumination of the Lord I scorn, preferring my own light. Huh. The Master warns me to beware that lest the light in me be darkness. And darkness it is, my own pride blinding me to my own lostness.
But I digress. I began speaking about the eyes of others.
I notice that when I speak with someone with light behind their eyes, a certain presence emanates from within them. They too are probing me, looking deep within me, searching, perhaps reasoning and asking inwardly, "What kind of man is this?"
I noticed too another kind of man, empty, the light gone or flickering. Their gaze averts mine, unable to endure the disclosure. Here, there ,they look, but not into me. Perhaps this man has lost hope. Life didn't pan out as he expected. He is embittered, seeing no more pure good anymore but all he experiences is tainted by expectation of more of the same. A closed circle of existence.
I noticed yet another kind of man. I look into his eyes and I see the world. This man's eyes have never beheld anything of Heaven. If Heaven has impressed itself with any weight on this soul, quickly this soul has caused Its flight, so that no lingering fragrance remains. He is animated by the world. The world is his home. The world has blinded him and he is enamored by its beauty. Eternity does not bestir him to rise; to lift his eyes upon Him that He may have compassion upon him, for he beholds Him not.
The Holy One is not reflected by the world, but rejectes Him, asking instead for the murderer, that deceiver of old, a murderer from the beginning. The world asks once again for him rather than the Healer, the lancer of the pus of our being, for He penetrates. Deep. Too deep. So deep.
But godly sorrow produced by the Great Physician leads him to repentance, to abandon and shed the old man.
Ah, but the world. He loves his home.
Everywhere I turn, in so many faces, I see the same eyes. A nation of nothing behind the eyes.
"Save me, o Lord."
I look and look and I see the world. These eyes that show me the world; its shadows and illusions. Froth on top of every cup I'm bidden to drink at its beckoning, discovering there is no substance. The same trick gets me every time.
These eyes are mine.
What fate awaits me? What is behind my eyes?
"Do You look, o Lord, and see me among those with nothing behind their eyes?"