we're walking with broken feet
upon a path worn deep
where tears form mud
and mud fills fingernails
that cling to the slope
like mad
and we're climbing with tired feet
into the clouds of doubt
where comforts go cold
and light and shadow blur
but the echoes still call
like crazy
dare we believe our ears?
was home really hearth left behind?
dare we believe our eyes?
is there truly no up nor down?
dare we trust our hearts?
will this all get easier as we go?
we're plodding with blistered feet
along a trail laid painfully
through ages and pages
and nails and wood
where our leader hung
like a fool
and we're following with calloused feet
toward the hope of rest
with promised wisdom to guide
and promised adversity to try
all who thirst for mercy
like the sick
the sinners
called to repentance
the self-living
called to a cross
the sons and daughters
called to ask and receive
the wanderers
called Home.
He is writing in us, tonight i believe. i've had his message in my heart today and several days past, and i come here blessed by the reading. your entire first stanza and like mad ... oh, this is insnae. i mean that in a good way--it convesy such feeling, such muddy hope and rawness.
ReplyDeleteand he calls us home, is there anything more gloryful than that?
the self-living, called to a cross
ReplyDeletewhy can't i get this in those hard-to-breathe moments?
love you.