I wait for you, often impatiently

I wait for you, often impatiently.
Passionate and shortsighted is my soul,
Resistant to the truth of your control.
My faith wars with my fears consistently.
I pray for grace to give up while I grip
More tightly to what you require of me,
Thinking of faith as eyes widen to see
Any way out. A trembling heart and lip
Often appear instead of steadfastness,
Longing for Egypt in the Promised Land,
Reaching for idols as you hold my hand.
Spirit, sustain me. Help me see past this.
Teach me to rest in your ability
And wait in rev’rence and humility.


Photo by Oliver Hihn on Unsplash

With a Storm

How do you respond
(w)hen t(h)e w(i)nd (s)hakes your tem(p)orary dwelling?
when the thund(e)r b(r)eaks your sense of calm?

(w)hen t(h)e l(i)ghtning (s)trikes your storehouses?
when all around you is (p)urifying floodwat(e)r and fi(r)e
life-giving,
all-consuming?

What do you do
when the Father answers your prayers with a storm
and a whisper?

Do you run away?
Where else would you go?

There is a response
when the w(i)nd sh(a)kes your te(m)porary dwelling.
when the thunder (b)reaks your sens(e) of calm.

when the lightning (s)trikes your storehouses.
when all around you is purifying floodwa(t)er and f(i)re,
(l)ife-giving,
a(l)l-consuming.

This poem would not be what it is today without the contributions of Andrew Wilson. He helped with both the structure and the content, improving the rough draft immeasurably and guiding the poem to its final form. I’m incredibly grateful for his feedback.

Photo by Victor Rodriguez on Unsplash

Provision

Some hopes are dashed upon the throne of grace,
Are lifted up in pray’r to be denied.
And though it seems the Father hides his face,
We need not fear that he will not provide.
But his provision oft is of a kind
Perceived unkind while in the midst of loss.
What he deems “need” is diff’rently defined.
Sometimes the crown is traded for the cross.
But crosses borne in faith will always form
Our souls as needed, so we need not fret.
His grace suffices for the fiercest storm.
None who trust full in him shall feel regret.
But it is faith—not sight—that shows the way.
God is our shepherd. We need ne’er dismay.


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Redeem

How can you redeem what I have done?
I have sought solace in sin,
worshiped idols, chose
self over you.
True,
you are sovereign still,
ruler over every realm.
But how I rebel,
rejecting life,
desiring death.
I wound
myself as well as
those I love
less than I love myself
but more than I love you.
I have no excuse,
no plea but your pardon,
no hope but your help.
Salvage me
that I might be useful,
perhaps even
faithful.
May it be.
Have mercy.
Redeem even me.

Photo by Zane Lee on Unsplash

Poets

The poets worshiped you through verse and rhyme,
Turned their imaginations to the task
Of translating eternity to time
That image bearers might be brought to bask
In light refracted through a humble lens,
Refracted so to share a diff’rent view
Of beauty. Souls in wonder took up pens
And wrote to cultivate their love of you.
One wonders if the words will ever cease,
If all might soon be said, each rhyme fulfilled.
But throes of life persist, and words bring peace,
So movement of the quills will not be stilled.
Rise up, you poets, scribes of humble soul,
To teach and train us better to extol.


Photo by Lukasz Szmigiel on Unsplash

Who Are You?

Who are you? Majestic Maker of all
That moves and all that remains still. You fill
With fullness all spaces, unperceived, call
Dead things to life, direct with perfect will
Without removing our ability
To truly love and to be loved by you.
You are the true source of tranquility,
The good shepherd, trustworthy, steadfast through
Every scene of the story. You are
The center and the circumference, all-
Encompassing and all-surpassing, far
Beyond, nearer still. Somehow you still call
Our small souls into fellowship and free
Our idol eyes to readjust and see.


Photo by Zach Betten on Unsplash