Sirens. And not the sexy, "strap-me-to-the-mast-lest-I-perish" kind either.
The kind racing against instinct, towards pain and death and fire. The kind rushing to the hurt with wailing and harsh reds, but rushing to the hurt with hope. Hope that maybe this time the fire didn't reach the baby's room. Hope that maybe this time the accident victim won't have a punctured lung and internal bleeding. Hope that everyone still has their limbs. They streak electric red and yellow against the black night, weaving their way to the agony.
The world needs more soul medics.
The medics are the bravest men in the battle. They face the bloody rampage of men's ambitions and sins and don't waste a second slapping some gauze on the wound. The see some of the worst that the world (read "men") can spew out and they clean up the mess. They don't mind the blood and the entrails, so long as the stomach gets sewn up.
Men need someone to tell them they're bleeding.
The worst are the ones in shock. They don't know that their leg is missing. They still think it's there; heck, they can still feel it there. Faithful is the friend who tells of the wound. No, Jimmy, it's not there. You're gonna need this morphine and a whole lot of prayer. You can't heal a wound you don't acknowledge. Medicine is for the sick, the Doctor is for the diseased.
Men need someone to tell them that He bled.
The Physician didn't take His own medicine. He sped towards the pain, with a different red. His ambulance always finds the dead and dying. And with some divine blood transfusion, He takes their place. He becomes the one ravaged by the sickness, He becomes the one Death seizes. But Death underestimated Him. And He killed it. Death-killer, that's Jesus.
I'm not the trumpeter. I can't stand on the hill and lead the gospel charge.
But I am a healed man and an honorary medic under Head Physician. You and I can rush with hope to the scenes of blood and screams of pain. You and I can tell of the Healer.
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