Poetry

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© Bob Barra, 5-25-07

The words I write reveal a gift,
Given by the One who made me,
And they reveal a cursed rift;
A mind to easily rape me;

But this mind that I can’t leave,
It will always think;
It’s to His Word, I must cleave,
When my thoughts make me sink;

If my thoughts were shovels,
I’d be reaching China;
Their depths make me grovel;
I need my holy Refiner;

If my thoughts were real,
I’d die a million deaths;
They bring up fears I feel,
It’s hard to catch my breath;

With the Word as my path,
His Spirit as my fuel,
I leave behind my fear’s wrath;
My Lord must be my rule;

The Spirit rearranges,
His Word, it makes me sing;
It’s then my mind it changes;
It becomes my wings;

Even now, you see here,
I go from low to high;
May His truth give me cheer,
When, to Him, I draw nigh;

If this write cheers you,
Then give my Giver a hand;
If your mind needs truth,
Fuel it with His commands;

I thank You, Lord, you teach me;
You made me your disciple;
I’ve let Your Spirit reach me,
With wisdom so insightful.

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