Salvaged

watercolortrees

Paint my skin in springtime shades,

warm the tones of cold judgement.

Let Light wash over my frozen opinions

and brush aside arrogance and pride,

covering that powerful streak of stubborn selfishness

with magnificent magenta mercy,

graceful gouache glory.

Frame my life’s context

against the wall of Your gallery,

anoint my head with oils and pastels,

running over into lithographed lap.

For I am but a copy

until Your fingers draw out the Original;

I am but a replica

until Your signature calls me Salvaged.

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Barren Womb

snowscape

Barren womb of curse-cold earth,

embryo of soul’s rebirth;

winter breeds the hottest hopes,

where faith weds life and grace elopes.

It Could Have Been an Angel

frost overhead

It could have been an angel,

whose ┬árustle I just heard –

it could have been the breath of God

advancing Living Word;

it could have been a baby’s cry

with virgin-breath its kin;

it could have been my heart’s rebirth,

as Saviour entered inn.