ancient agony's quiet rule.
sea waves roll still chanting rhythm and song.
chanting, "Lord, take the bitter cup, still."
again I question, "Is this Thy will?"
"are not all things possible fore Thee?"
"Then why this way Lord?"
"And why me?"
Many times before the throne I passed untouched,
unscathed, undone--yet here--
at the little cut, the small blade
it was not the wound's size that ached,
but the place: soft and tender.
well, bleed then, but bleed out me
all my self made dissonance, un-crying, un-aching
well, take then, but take out pride
and be patient, while I wail and moan inside.
--it's only my heart. my love. my time.--
oh, your sure voice recommends me still
--It's only My Heart, My Love, My Time--
Post a Comment