I can’t remember the last time I wrote a poem or song or story. I used to be quite a prolific writer, but it’s something I gave up after coming to Christ – with the exception of my blog. Growing up, I used my writing as an outlet for my deepest, darkest, and most intense emotions. I didn’t know how to do it for the glory of God, and I wasn’t sure anyone really should be reading my unfiltered meditations, let alone that anyone might want to.
This poem came to me in a reflective moment in a cafe somewhere in a small town in western Massachusetts. Well, really it was more like several reflective moments… or hours. I have a lot more time to be introspective these days than I’ve had in ages. Here’s hoping I’ve done something fruitful with it:
Sitting in a small cafe;
a faintly burning wick in the bottom of a glass.
What once was a pillar, burning brightly
shrunk to votive, then to tea light,
and melted to little more than a flickering pool of wax.
And yet, the smallest of flames burns on,
sustained by what it cannot see or understand,
still searching for oxygen, resisting the temptation to give in and be quenched.
Oh Holy Spirit, come
Like a mighty rushing wind, come and breathe on me anew.
Oh Lord Jesus, come
Mend this bruised reed and let these broken bones rejoice
and sing the praises of the Holy Hands;
which break and bind up again,
which give and take away,
for the good of the broken and the glory of the Healer.
For all His wounds are made in mercy,
and it was mercy that gladly bore the wounds and burdens
that ought to have been mine.
And these anxious fears and worries He gladly takes on too,
He commands I cast them all on Him, and He makes all things new.