Poetry

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Isaiah 30: 18-22

Line upon line, precept on precept,
You crafted the perfect story
before the world was formed.

Yet the choice,
from my first feeble breath,
to follow the golden path laid
or to go my own way
remained.
And like a sheep I strayed,
how I strayed.

With the pen of independence
firmly gripped in calloused hands,
I edited the divine romance
You so lovingly wrote
With every thought and deed
I scribbled between the lines of love,
sometimes erasing Your vision,
sometimes tracing the heavenly script,
yet always marring the perfect story.

As I reread the past,
viewed the choices made,
and experienced the bed
in which I laid,
The desire for a better way
than Yours faded.

Despair lurked,
waiting to spill
its inky black despondence
in my soul,
hoping to destroy Your story
once and for all.


My idols of independence,
self-sufficiency,
and the right to my own opinion,
all built of mud and refuse,
so cleverly overlaid in gold,
were hollow comfort
to my barren soul.

I turned my face to Heaven.
I sought the good Teacher.
I desired correction.

You longed to have compassion on me.
You waited to be gracious to me.
From the first syllable
of my cry,
You heard me.
From the first glance
of my tear-filled eye,
You answered me.

With gentle correction
You showed me the way
in which to walk.
I followed You.

Each step I took,
no matter how hesitant,
the tattered manuscript
of my decisions
transformed into
a scroll of life.
The past erased,
edited to perfection.

The present
being written
by hands of service
are held close by those
of my nail-scarred Teacher.

The future,
though already written in eternity,
is mine to humbly walk out
for Your glory.

I have no fear
for my critic is
my loving Teacher.

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