Shouldn’t it be easier, telling You how I feel?
I’m not, I’m rattling round inside myself,
Like empty husks of dried up corn.
Unfinished pages and spilled ink, bottles cast aside, partly born?
Or paint brushes stiffened, by crusty neglect,
Smeared blobs, faint lines, never-to-be seen?
How, God, did I get to here, homebound, bedbound?
Some great “what if” experiment, still hanging around?
Lord, what can I show You, that doctors say I’m dying?
Sometimes, I howl and tear at the unfairness in silence.
I know Yes, I will die, worse people think me admirable or brave,
I’m not, Abba God, I’m the most terrified, of the undone, I hide in my cave.
Truth is, if novel characters die before stories are told,
If book covers are filled with blank pages,
The world’s mirror said I couldn’t not Your Word’s.
So the fault lies strictly on me, then doesn’t it?
I can’t be brave not choosing the Lord.
There’s no nobility if I fail at home,
Because I couldn’t cut the worlds cord—
What praise do I deserve?
But that of man?
Amen. dfav 5/13/16
I hear you Donna.
Thanks June. Hope your adventure is superb. Envy you much! Love you!
For June Foster.