These grinding bones
Have ground me down
Full and round,
With future endeavors.
These heavy days,
To find my way
Back to passionate.
It doesn’t matter-
My changing positions
Because You are the God
Of every transition,
And even in this twisted state,
I am still Yours.
I called on You last night,
And You were there.
Closer than a brother, fairer
Than ten thousand- mighty,
They tell me how to speak,
How You would have me,
All reverence, or all intimacy,
As the King, or the Seeker,
Or the Savior
Narrow forms of appeal
And I quake with fear,
But You play no Lear
To my clumsy Cordelia
Or my calls,
Through all their intimidation,
I cannot remain unspoken-
I call on You as one broken
In childlike trembles of desperation
Looking for a Father
And You’ve never waxed pernicious
In my improprieties,
So patient with all of these,
And ever the God with us-
I called on You last night
As just me to only You,
As with all else we’ve been through
You showed up and made it right,
Looking at me through You
That I may be lovely in Your sight.
Like the proverbial buck,
Down in the mouth,
Down on my luck,
And checked out.
Onto someone else’s shoulders,
Easier still than making the most
Of growing older,
And numbering my days.
Like a passerby,
Wasting smiles, wasting miles,
Wasting the days until I die
Working so hard to pass the time
As though it exists in endless supply.
A skipped beat- so swiftly I remember
That rotted stump of tree
Felled in late September
Amid the pale anemones.
It’s stature carted, splintered, stacked,
And now reduced to ash,
Taken by a sudden attack-
A severing metal clash
There, the stump sat in grief
Impotent roots clutching dirt-
Rotting in its disbelief,
Nothing but scars relived its worth.
There, its secret hacked to earth,
It made a room for yours
Within the pulp of inner girth,
It contained its tragic stores.
How long the days have pressed to pass,
Wild adventuring laid to rest,
And I’ve neglected your crevasse
That rots now in my chest.
I haven’t called on you, old friend,
In the many lives I’ve borne
While the one that would not mend
Stays ever hidden through the storm
In the rotted husk akin,
Weak and weatherworn-
To all that might have been!
Maybe there are times
We should distract ourselves,
To refract or dispel
The troubles that shine
On our diminished souls.
And perhaps, in due course,
We nestle into today’s sorrow
Knowing the day may end tomorrow
With sudden rejoicing, weeping remorse,
Or starting anew.
Winter advances in age
Skeletal fingers in frozen decay
Touch me; All the rage
Of the summer sun melts away.
I stand in the silence of clarity.
I see you, in the beauty and the biting cold,
Breathing through the disparity
Of seasons turned, and youth turned old.
Wispy exhales of hope and yearning
Mourning moments that have not been
Snowdrifts of lost nostalgia churning,
Swirled and stilled by a disquiet wind.
I miss you
Twinkling in the warmth of joy and proximity.
I exist in these moments, undone and overdue,
Mingled from conception to infinity
And I am Yours
Whatever I have been, I am still.
Weathered storms, lonely roads and crowded wars,
But I feel you here in the hushed chill,
And I love you still.
The brightness of the sun
Slips beneath my horizon view,
If the tremulous touch of darkness
Scatters my assertions askew,
Though the earth never cease its spin,
You cannot be moved.
The blackest sorrow finds me
Doubts, like earthquakes, shake me,
Cracking along my fault lines,
If grief herself breaks me
I am never beyond the reach or repair
Of Your immovable hands.
As I struggle with what’s in me,
The sin that strips the world bare,
Leaving brokenness, our destruction,
The inky depths of our despair-
Through the dark night of the soul
I strain to see, to believe You still care.
You, the God who cannot be moved,
Are moved for me.
The God who weeps,
The God who bleeds,
The God who strives,
The God who sings
Is moved to sing over me.