A New Year’s Prayer

frozen moon

 

Just enough raindrops to plant your hope deep,

Just enough losses to learn what to keep;

Just enough chaos to drive you to prayer,

Just enough failure to need Jesus there;

Just enough courage to hold your head high,

Just enough valleys to covet the sky;

Just enough sunshine to process the pain,

Just enough dying to rise up again.

Adding Yeast

 

 

fresh bread

Stir me.

Add the flour of infirmity,

Anoint me with the oil of sorrow.

Beat me.

Pummel me with your fists,

Pound out your frustrations on my flesh.

 

Bake me.

Turn up the heat of your accusations,

Burn me with your passions, the self that fires your actions.

Kill me.

I will rise,

Tower above you,

Tear my flesh to feed a starving world.

You will eat,

And rise

To live again.

 

 

Transfusion

frozenpuddle.jpg

 

He invades her thoughts

Like formaldehyde,

Preserving pain

(Locking it in amber),

The proverbial fly.

He swirls through her veins,

Throbs at her temples

Thick like curdled milk.

Only the Surgeon

Can cut deep enough

To bleed out this cancer,

Transfuse Life

from heaven’s veins

to her impoverished frame.

Blades flash.

Blood flows,

Staining wood and stone.

Every drop

Finds its way

Intravenously

To her heart.

Upon This Rock

leaf on rock

 

Upon this rock I take my stand,

I shall not stand alone;

I feel a strength beneath my feet,

A strength that’s not my own.

I feel a coolness in its shade,

A balm for flitting breast;

I feel the pulse of holy heat,

A place to sit and rest.

.

Upon this rock I build my life,

I shall not build in vain;

It anchors me to solid ground,

And lifts me up again.

A sure foundation, set in stone,

An anchor for life’s seas –

So blow and bluster, autumn wind,

You shall not conquer me.

 

 

 

 

 

Broken

lilacbuds.jpg

 

Here I am, Lord –

broken.

Again.

Tears are my most

loyal companion;

they trace the fault-lines

where sorrow cracks me wide.

Yet I take heart

as I think of You –

broken.

As buds are broken to release fragrance,

You were broken to release me.

The beauty of it

perfumes my pain,

gives it hope

and bloom.

For as Your deepest break

birthed your bravest flowers,

my broken

can blossom, too.

Skin

crackledice.jpg

This crackle finish,

this patina of pain

makes her a marked woman.

Grafts,

layers of insulation

against the raw oozing

egress of bodily fluids

let loose from crushed conduits,

won’t stitch to spasms

or bind to burns.

What she needs

is not patches

but a new suit of skin,

armour-clad and seamless,

third-degree love-pierced offering,

to cover smarting soul

with the Balm of Gilead.