Poetry

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© Bob Barra, 4-9-07

Borne of heat that’s borne of You,
I am complete as You are true;
I have my Strength, Father dear;
You are my Breath in me here;

Hold me close, thank You, Lord,
My Sharon’s Rose, sole Adored;
From the rough to shine the brightest,
This mirror buffed to Your highest;

The piercing coming from the Shrike*,
Is Your plan summing up Your strike;
He thinks he has me at his bay,
To sink me down as his prey;

Impale me, Shrike, and love the blood;
Assail me, Shrike, my face in mud;
The life I hate (I once did laud),
Because it prates against my God;

I take this pain of my sin,
Embrace as aim, and lean in,
For I find, deep in side,
The Lord who’s kind, my Abide;

Here He comes, with His peace;
Mercy’s Son, my High Priest;
He knows the way that I take,
And hears me pray: me remake;

You mean for evil, as you would,
But as His weevil, He means good;
You’ll hate me more, when back I come;
I will soar, like my God’s Son;

And I’ll come back, with His grace;
For you, to hack, before His face;
This is mine, from Him as promise:
To judge your sin, with grace and justice.





“Do you not know that we shall judge angels?”—1 Cor. 6:3

*Webster's definition of "Shrike":any of numerous usually largely gray or brownish oscine birds (family Laniidae) that have a hooked bill, feed chiefly on insects, and often impale their prey on thorns.

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