Jesus,
Break my hands so that I might experience something more beautiful than poetry. Nail my scraps of written paper to the cross so that my words might die and at Your mercy be resurrected. Lord, rejuvenate and refine them. Let us walk into the dark woods--hanging lanterns in the trees; Glow the ground, God. May the work of my hands be left behind me, drenched by rain and wild storm: That I might shed my childish identity to worship on the tuffet of the Lord. Only Your words birthed life: A Kingdom with Divine eyes, lips, and breath [in the form of man].
Lord, I beg of You--
Beckon me.
Jesus,
Break my hands...
So that I might experience
Something more beautiful than
Poetry.
Incline my ears to the broad silence of You:
Let static fall
Like rain on
The stale paper
Of
My dry,
Cracking hands.
So that I would be broken
To trust You more:
Strengthen
The feeble
Strands of
My
Faith.
I pray
Growth
Over this season;
That I might
Plunge into the
Rich,
Fertile
Soil of
Your
Truth:
I am pining
For my dormancies
To be wrung
Out
For you.
Ordain my words,
Father--
By molding them into
Feet
That
Flee from the
Comfort of
My flesh
Into suffering.
