And so we return as Cyrus decreed,
creeping forth on bended knee,
seeking a once-home robbed of all hospitality
and ground devoid of fertile recompense.
We are the lost and aimless ones,
displaced, sent on mission of grace,
chosen, cast away, chosen again,
thrice-whipped and humbled.
We speak not
but carry sanctuary stones
on our aching backs.
And
so it was
in an infinitesimal moment
that circumscribes the rise and fall of miraculous kingdoms
we will never read of in agèd manuscripts,
in the span of an aching heartbeat,
the whirling descent of an eyelash detached,
all dawdling ceases & the grey periphery transforms,
shifts to unragged focus
clarity.
[40 days]
divine revelation, submission, sickening tumbling sensation
wrenching heart palpitation, full surrender, transformation
pleading, “no, not ready yet, not ready”
yet born equipped
to stand,
refined,
alive to You,
shame stripped away,
for there is no place now
for loathing in Your glorious light.
In my weakness, You shine all the brighter.
When He calls You out
into the Wilderness,
You will not be without sacred spaces
for He will go before You,
anointing the very ground
You walk upon.
Behold, the sky will fracture
and downward will tumble
His distilled vessels of peace
in a direly tender deluge.
Drenched in love,
You can do naught but
humbly follow where He leads,
until — by grace — You stumble
upon the wonder of
The Promised Land.
Whimsy & Words 