Poetry

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Words no longer fall upon
The pages of this day
Where I would fill them readily
With all I have to say

But they are given not to me
Though thirst for them I do
Might it be my eyes are blind
And search without a clue?

What words have I to offer life
To those who yearn for more
Than the residue that fills their cup
As they wander down life’s shore?

Pride, it stands a stumbling block
To words from God’s own throne
And He must tear the stones apart
That I would claim my own

Words chiseled by my hand and pen
And altered till they fit
The imagine that I try to paint
Within my words of writ

If words make up my offering, Lord,
Let them be of unhewned stone
Falling from the Word of God
Of the sweetness I have known

Sweetness of amazing grace
That covers me each day
Through sacrificial offering
And the blood-price You did pay

Upon an altar made of wood
An altar I’d have fled
Your life You placed upon its nails
For me Your blood was shed

The Word who spoke it all in place
Who held each atom tight
Saw my need and with Your love
Was moved to meet my plight

Words that fall upon life’s page
Are written by Your hand
With fingerprints so visible
I come to understand

If I would be Your instrument
Through which Your ink will flow
My words must fall from Your own heart
So that others, too, may know

I have no words to offer life
They fall from Your own pen
Written with a scarlet ink
And a love You bore within





© DeAnna L. Brooks
9 February 2005

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