Sunday, August 8, 2010

In which I again wax poetic

Thy living water pours through me,
golden-glowing in thy Light,
dampening my dry and barren ground.
Making of me a more fertile soil.
A seed, burrowed deep within,
begins to take root, stretching out timid, hopeful tendrils.
But,
my heart
is a sieve.
And soon thy water trickles away,
unnoticed at first, until
the earth dries, hardens, cracks.
The seed, the sprout, withers,
my desperate tears a poor substitute for that first watering.
Perhaps the stream was imagined after all?
'Twould be a tempting thought, were it not for
a dampened spot remaining.
A poor oasis in my desert.

Oh Lord, I shrink to ask thee to
send thy rains again,
for I fear my sieve will again betray me.
And so I ask,
remake my sieve.
Mold me.
Fire me in thy kiln,
e'en thy refiner's fire.
Make me tight like unto a dish,
a fitting vessel for thy love,
fertile ground for thy word.

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