The heavens are telling the glory of God – (tweet tweet, like like, instant message)
His voice goes out to the ends of the earth – (I fast, I tithe, I pray twice a day)
Heaven and earth will pass away – (Lord, let me sit at your right hand)
Before His law will fade.
In wilderness, make straight the way – (I thank you, Lord, I’m not like him)
The Son of Man must suffer and die – (O surely Lord not I?)
Heaven and earth will pass away – (Anti-ageing cream for sale)
His promises remain.
King: I cannot come to You however I choose
yet all I am is a bundle
hurriedly put together,
no sack cloth, no ashes,
hair still mussed from slumber,
feet not yet expecting to walk…
Can I come to You as a stowaway,
scarcely awake, found among cargo,
hiding like Jonah while the waves ravage?
I bring no grand promise,
only the startled eyes of one caught unawares
and the knowledge that, when before kings, I must bow,
and, when cast in oceans, to swim.
Though forty days are hardly enough
for the numbness of limbs to distribute itself
and for fingers to learn, once again, how to pray –
I come to you, King, in dishevelled dismay
and declare my all dross at Your feet.
If my Amen burns faint now
or my wick dwindles, short,
may You be my prayer’s substance,
Ash marks the face where the image was lost;
dust marks the skin once shaped from it.
Ash marks the doors to these bodies of dirt;
grace marks the scars skinned upon it.
Death marks the flesh once inspired by Life;
Life pays the cost to respire it.
Steps mark the knees bent upon them in prayer;
hope marks the soul there repining.