Poetry

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In my grief I have blessed, than I'm blessed myself.
When I can't help this mess I'm someone else's help.
It's all right there, my deficit, I've been my brother's asset.
As if coming from another spirit my drought has made another wet.

Who am I, to be so made, far beyond an earth-borne talent?
Seeing from me, a higher grade, my person has been made so bent.
While wanting to die, I give life, making thankful another sister.
All around me breathes of Christ. It won't stay and sit there.

So I won't die, won't take my life. I want to see what I can give.
So with the stench of current strife, I find I want to live.
Many, my words have direction, even I must look up.
I'm caused to make a heart-inspection then drink the righteous cup.

If I, in my sin, make up such a blessing, what is the end of obedience?
Where am I to be found resting on that side of repentance?
So I sit on the dark side of the blessed cross.
Rise and turn and abide, not living like my Friend is lost.

What is the end of my love, loving only those not hating?
I praise the Lord as I love, while Satan continues prating.
If I give in my loss, won't I give in my abundance?
Following only when it's good, what's the truth of my obedience?

Then in this work of imperfection I will be complete.
I will end my insurrection along with my defeat.

© 8-15-2012

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