YHWH, my Father
The ancients sang against
gods made of hands
taking trees
shaping rock
to build then bow to them
but now our gods are made of mind—
of self and sifting sands
enlightenment philosophy
duds and Armageddon
i don’t know the gods i've made
so practical i'm blind
but i know you see the god-like-me
i've made of my own mind
harlotry, though subtler, drifts inward with the law
and writ upon our hearts is grace
along with rebel flaws
do we engender our own selves
to follow demons in disguise
or must we wait and answer You
who sees through all our lies?
many men have writ of this
yet all are blind like me—
unless the tender Spirit lays
upon our vile harlotry
and presses us against Your Love
Your Power, Wisdom, Grace
uynless we answer “yes” to You
in every little way.
it's not our problem, you answer us
to examine, root and tend
it is only our to surrender
to Your uprooting hand.
and let the face of Jesus be our harlotry demand
the husband of our youth, He calls again and again
when the voices all around still and cease from His—
how worthy, how worthy, Lord
to receive honor, praise, and this:
our attention, Jesus
my attention, affection, adoring love—
until all of me is wrought in You
my image, my Lord, my God.
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