I love the Lord, for He heard my cry.
Not my silver tongue and wit, spinning precious threads to catch the Almighty in thrilling glimmer words.
He is not my prey, that I should fell his Spirit in this way.
Not my golden intentions of muscle-faith, wells dug in an august age and beams swung high to build my towering tomorrow.
Mine is the broken cistern, splintered lumber and sand after the storm.
I fainted in faithfulness. But He heard my cry.
My dust-mouth croaked, the strain on the worn cords barely passing the faded crowns of yesteryear trees, not quite power enough to reach the brassy sky.
But He hears the brittle grasshopper drag himself along the same weighted earth.
My squinting eyes glimpsed the faintest whisp of prayer cloud along the distant barren line, doubting the good for mirage.
But He sees and sends the rain into desert-dead unbelief.
I love the Lord, for He heard my cry.
4 comments:
The heart cries out. And in response, the Lord of Life breaths life into our empty, broken bones to make us stand tiptoe as we behold His glory. We are undone and whole.
That's a beautiful poem/Psalm.
"Doubting the good for mirage." That is a devastating truth that can be said of us all. This is a poem to be read often, as a reminder that He always hears. Always.
Love you,
Maman
Oh Abbey! *deep breath released*
Thanks for sharing.
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