Sometimes, the words just come. Unorganized, unrefined, undirected currents. Sometimes, the release is good, and I am more free.
My life, a reckless stream,
Barreling down the boulders,
Shooting across the night,
A tiny star.
And sometimes it sits,
Wet pools in caverns,
Mirages and shadows.
Where is this life that dies?
The breaking point of me dying,
My losing all this shaggy selfishness?
Pride dumps? Clusters of dead laziness?
And where is this cleaning hope?
Of pure blood that makes me new?
The shedding of me?
It's only when this falls that
I can run by Your mountain stream,
And laugh as You twirl me around,
A little girl. In golden sunshine,
Deep blue of blue sky.
It begins now.
You, Jesus, . . . would You bathe me?
In Your cleansing Word that
Breaks, wounds, and heals?
Would You remind me of that
That I'm to forever to be named. His.