Trust (a poem)

The commandment comes,

“Do this I say,

cross not this line,

go not that way”

 

My fallen soul,

it writhes within,

it pouts and doubts

and seethes with sin

 

“I cannot do

this thing Love asks!

For shall I not

my freedom have?”

 

And so I choose

to disobey,

and flex my

suicidal strength

 

And as I fall

into a pit,

’tis not the freedom

that I meant.

 

Waste.

 

A tender hand

but strong, I feel,

and to my awe

no sword it wields

 

It pulls me out,

it cleanses me,

it chides me not,

but gently leads

 

Me to the place

where feet can stand,

a rock of grace

that never ends

 

“Oh Father, why?

How could you be

so patient with

a worm like me?”

 

I cling unto

this hand of love

that ever finds me

though I run

 

And now a dawn

within my soul,

this goodness

shall not let me go.

 

Rest.

 

The commandment comes,

“Do this I say,

cross not this line,

go not that way”

 

My heart of stone

is melted now,

and to this Word

I freely bow

 

The good hand points

and lo I see,

an altar there

prepared for me

 

This wooden-grace,

I cling to climb

My doubts erased

His promise mine

 

I lie upon it

peaceful, still,

a child who loves

his Father’s will.

 

Trust.