These are Godless times.
We write Him out of His own history,
Condemn Him for our crimes
And celebrate His mystery
As our innovation.
We are a Godless people
Who do not work the field,
But eat our bellies full
Of everything that appeals
To our wandering wisdoms
And desires.
The men who sit atop the world
Always forget it spins,
The towers whereon they perch
Seem tall enough to defend
Until the earth tilts
And top is bottom again.
The men who bear the heavy yoke
And cast their eyes to ground,
Who cannot lift the chin to see
The weight that wears them down
Must always, always remember
God made this dark earth round.
This too shall pass,
We are not bound to the whim of chance-
There is a design as a wise man defined:
God is the great reversal of human circumstance.
Conscience-stricken,
Because I’m afflicted by
My own dark thoughts,
And words, and heart
Of sin.
Walking circles again
Tracing my doubts,
But never without You
My God and companion.
I can’t fathom how
You hold on when I sell out,
Fall in my canyon,
And forget again-
You are on my side
Even when I offend.
As my friend said,
Just because I can’t see You directing,
Doesn’t mean You aren’t protecting.
Forgive my detestable behavior.
I’m pleading with You to perfect me,
To be my perfect
Savior.
A hand to the helm
And an eye to the stars.
Let You be my course and aim,
And be my means both near and far.
Let me hold with cold knuckles
The wheel of obedience
To guide this vessel through fog and foam
With all hope and expedience.
Neither driving blind in darkness
But clear the webbed clouds of desire and doubt,
Through which I strain, but cannot
See Your magnificent route.
Be my works, and be my hope,
And be all You always are
To guide me safely home again,
Be my helm and star!
Waves of faithful
washing over my faithless,
When I despair
as one who is graceless,
You respond
and fear falls baseless.
I know again, it will be okay,
for even if I cease,
Your love continues on
to uphold in perfect peace
where my love stumbles lame,
a slave to consternation and caprice.
You are God of the wind and the root,
and I, a flag between the two;
tethered to the Truth,
bowing, blowing, windstrewn.
No roots of my own, but a tangle
Of knot and cord
And strangled
And held secure.
Falling flat, stretching unfurled,
And always clinging to my stake
In the ground, in this world
I pray You remake.
Unyielding in my doubt,
Compliant with each gale
Rippling me throughout.
You who never fail, don’t fail
Never release, nor relent,
Even when I fall,
Even when I fail to repent.
I am a Protestant daughter;
My Catholic mother
Birthed me in the water
And I drifted farther
Than she would reach.
I washed up on Neverland.
I read the works of the lost boys
Who also traveled unmanned
Bereft of the pride and poise
That mitigates confession.
An orphan community
A ragamuffin clan,
Who found unity in the impunity
They drank from the hand
Of their Father.
I feel shaky these days.
On the surface, all remains
But underneath the plates are drifting
The fault line is yawning
And stretching awake and shifting
All I know and need, but I
Do not cry out in fearful demands,
I wait in rigor
For His familiar hands
To pull me near
Again.
Oh how we strive
Within this realm of God and men
And all the while
The ivy climbs the wall and blooms again.
We build, we shape
And we destroy with fervent hands and yet
The dead seed underground
Will live again and not forget
Where to sink its roots
Or to the surface stretch.
viewingcamelot 