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		<title>First Things RSS Feed - Elizabeth Duran</title>
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		<copyright>Copyright 2025 First Things. All Rights Reserved.</copyright>
		<managingEditor>ft@firstthings.com (The Editors)</managingEditor>
		<webMaster>ft@firstthings.com (The Editors)</webMaster>
		<pubDate>Mon, 20 Jan 2025 16:55:07 -0500</pubDate>
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		<ttl>60</ttl>

		<item>
			<title> Repent Ye! </title>
			<guid>https://www.firstthings.com/article/1992/05/repent-ye</guid>
			<link>https://www.firstthings.com/article/1992/05/repent-ye</link>
			<pubDate>Fri, 01 May 1992 00:00:00 -0400</pubDate>
			
			<description><![CDATA[<p>Jesus is coming repent Ye!
<br>
reads the scrawled sign
<br>
of this man who is not John the Baptist
<br>
but who is in his own way
<br>
the handwriting on the wall
<br>
of this grim time.
<br>
Repent of what?
<br>
the tired commuters ask,
<br>
their virtue in their briefcases
<br>
as they head towards Grand Central
<br>
and the long ride
<br>
to what is no longer home
<br>
but still has no other name.
<br>
Repent, they ask, of what wildness,
<br>
what archaic evil;
<br>
and the man himself who holds the sign
<br>
does not know and could not say.
<br>
But over the gates of the terminal
<br>
lush nymphs sway
<br>
locked around the clock
<br>
restraining it from dominating
<br>
the universe;
<br>
and they know what Jesus knew
<br>
that what is to be repented
<br>
is what is lost:
<br>
the child unconceived,
<br>
the moment
<br>
when the hands that might have touched
<br>
pulled back,
<br>
the bread
<br>
that was swallowed in haste and alone,
<br>
and the wine
<br>
untasted on the table of the life
<br>
unlived.
</p> <p><em><a href="https://www.firstthings.com/article/1992/05/repent-ye">Continue Reading </a> &raquo;</em></p>]]></description>
		</item>
		<item>
			<title> Safari</title>
			<guid>https://www.firstthings.com/article/1992/05/safari</guid>
			<link>https://www.firstthings.com/article/1992/05/safari</link>
			<pubDate>Fri, 01 May 1992 00:00:00 -0400</pubDate>
			
			<description><![CDATA[<p>The white man has laid down his burden
<br>
in the middle of Broadway
<br>
and under the exhausted plane trees
<br>
black men lie like rags
<br>
on the benches where once
<br>
old white ladies chirped in a row
<br>
watching industrialized man
<br>
roll by in regal successful cars:
<br>
the chrome polished,
<br>
tires with the treads still thick
<br>
and nearly silent engines
<br>
hot with power.
</p> <p><em><a href="https://www.firstthings.com/article/1992/05/safari">Continue Reading </a> &raquo;</em></p>]]></description>
		</item>
		<item>
			<title> Tanisha</title>
			<guid>https://www.firstthings.com/article/1992/04/tanisha</guid>
			<link>https://www.firstthings.com/article/1992/04/tanisha</link>
			<pubDate>Wed, 01 Apr 1992 00:00:00 -0500</pubDate>
			
			<description><![CDATA[<p>There is nothing left to say now
</p> <p><em><a href="https://www.firstthings.com/article/1992/04/tanisha">Continue Reading </a> &raquo;</em></p>]]></description>
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