The snow, billows of cloud on earth,
The white clean.
I want to be this, Jesus.
So clean, so white.
But sometimes, I choose away from You.
I picture myself,
Running after things You've taken away,
Crying and running for those empty familiars,
When Your Father hands are behind me,
Reaching for me.
When I was young, pounding up the stairs,
My dad would chase me,
And I would laugh and squeal,
Making sure never to get caught.
The butterflies and excitement swirled
In my stomach as I ran.
Sometimes, I still feel those feelings.
I like to be chased,
To be pursued,
And maybe, . . . though I might not admit it,
I like to be caught sometimes.
And Jesus, You're running after this laughing child.
Please catch me.
But sometimes, I don't run in fun.
I run in foolishness and crooked fear.
Please still catch me.
Please don't let me get away.
I don't think I meet the expectations.
Will You still run? Please, please catch me?
Will You catch and clean a beggar child?
Your little vagabond?
((Oh danae, you make this sound beautiful,
But sometimes, it's dirty.))
Please still do it.
Washing sometimes means scrubbing, sometimes means
Walking away from the mud puddles.
Please still wash me.
Please run after me, Jesus.
And will You even do this?