Poetry

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He held a torch, burning high and holy.
He looked at me, being His object only.

The torch was His, as was the flame,
scorched the wood with the heat of His Name.
He stood at the end of a foot-worn bridge,
furthest from the world and its edge.

The bridge is mine, to my sorrow.
I’ve trod it many a time.
The things I found, I have hallowed,
and broke this heart of mine.

Yet I wept, to my own shame,
He threatened this thing I’ve crossed.
All the while I held His name,
I was found yet lost.

I saw the flame of that torch,
my eyes were caught by the gaze.
In my heart I felt the scorch,
that sought my spirit to raise.
I wanted to love Him, and His torch,
the beauty of His name.
I had no words to speak forth,
to make His Person my aim.

Then He smiled, a halting sight,
my heart desired Him more.
He made a move that seemed so right
and offered me the torch.

I grabbed so quick, I burned my hands.
They were nothing to me now.
I had the joy of His command.
I burned the bridge with a vow.
“This bridge is gone,” I said to Him,
“much to my elation.
This torch o’ heart has seared my sin,
for You are my Salvation.

“All I have is Yours, with my wounded hands.
I feed upon Your faithfulness in this barren land.
You will be my delight. I have my final desire.
My heart has become Your Torch, Your name is its fire!”

Eternity comes in His hands,
He looses time and space.
I come to Him, at His command,
for I have finished my race.
He holds His child, burning high and holy.
He looks on me, I’m His object only.

© 12-29-08



It sounds here like I'm saying I'm the only one He loves, which I know isn't true. What I'm expressing in that portion is how the Lord makes us feel like we're His special interest.

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