Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Treasures

But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us.
II Cor 4.7

Saturday, March 8, 2008

The withered hand

There are moments in this pale life
That stare thorough fog unlifting.

Moments that shroud from us
The joy we thought we'd feel.

Moments that claim more stores of hope
Than we have left to give.

Moments of caughtness. Caught between
the dark and the beyond--also very dark.

Which may be light,
And yet...

Has wrong been done to now walk here?
Have we strayed in finding now the center of the pearl?

Has our weak movement placed us here
To feel actutness of shared pain?

Has blundering foot and stolid hand
Voice inept and thought unkepmt brough this?

I would,
If I could,
Think That.

Yet in my
Soul a chamber
Opens to reveal.

A trust,
unfounded
but in
Grace

Grace, they say, forms nought but
Gentle props of airy meanless.

This I choose to pass.
To listen is to think.

And think, though I cannot,
I may find quite enough to show

That Grace, once found amidst the ruins
Is all suffieicnt mortar, brick and trowel.

It but remains. Ah yes, remains.
To weild it well, those tools those gifts.

My hands yet tremble. My skills, ah what...
They are not skills. And if...

And if they were they still were but the gifts.
Gentle gifts. Extended quite in Mercy, Love and, Grace.

...

Lord, stretch, stretch my withered hand
And cause
It to recieve