Wednesday, February 15, 2012

Work in progress.

Do I make Your heart sad?

Do I make Your eyes leak?

I know that I made Your blood bleed.

Do You hear the cries of this child and see pangs from self inflicted wounds?

How my words must force the nails.

Tendon, bone.

Cracked, broken.

How my heart must lick Your side.

My apathy was the bitter sponge that You willing drank from.

My rebellion weighed in wood.

Misplaced on the temporary, my desperation fueled Your angst remark.

"Why have You forsaken me?"

You address not my soul, but the maker of this will.

No longer calling Him Father, but God, You were the blueprint for my freedom.

And Your body was cold.

Your skin, neatly wrapped.

The marker was placed on Your grave.

You really did die.

In death, You stripped me of my only shameful excuse.

Naked now, I'm left to be.

Sitting, unscathed, secure in belonging.

Guilt 6 feet down in the ground.

Light trickles in and Your whole self envelopes.

Quiet and still, Your spirit descends.

You whisper...

Hand out, My child, just trust
Be mine, my beloved; be different, be free
and always believe me when I say

I'm not finished with you yet.


Listening to this and soaking in today.

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