Looking Up

It’s a wearisome path which is traveled alone,
and one I have left behind.
I could easily walk past each stepping stone –
rely on the strength of my mind.

The fog in the trees was nothing to fear:
blue hazes of simplety raw.
The darkness of shadows became something dear,
a novelty which became law.

I reveled in loneness; I knew it must save.
My days could adapt to this lie.
A heart could as easily beat in the grave –
less simple to live than to die.

I could stand on the precipice, ready to fall –
to permanently stop the pain.
To accept my end would bring peace to all;
there was no more in life I could gain.

Catching my breath I was ready to leap
but then was stopped short by a hand.
A voice tremored through me: “I’ve come from the deep.
This is not the ending I planned.”

Comfort and love were all I could hear,
the gentleness calling me back.
Afraid that this Saviour would soon disappear,
I turned ‘round, braced for an attack.

Blinded by light, I trembled complete,
my darkness: incomparably ill.
Unable to stand, I fell to His feet,
yearning to shadows to kill.

Trying so hard to rip off my apparel,
my weakness preventing this state,
I could my feel my heart becoming resentful
that I could not shed this trait.

Weeping again, I buried my face in the dirt.
I could not change myself.
I knew my Lord’s judgment should be my dessert –
a fairness in and of itself.

“Let me help you,” He said, coming down to my level,
and He held me as rain came to fall.
A scarlet blood downpour was the death of my vessel;
the scent of aster beds my shawl.

The quest wasn’t over – it had only begun.
Life wasn’t a solitary walk.
There were others whom by my Lord had won,
and together we lean on that Rock.

It’s a wearisome road which is traveled alone,
and one which I now defy.
I smile at the life unto which I have grown
and forever look up to the sky.

My Secret Place

People are afraid to walk through the doors of my secret place.
When they come in, they cannot escape themselves.
The door is heavy to some, light to others, operable to all;
it masks nothing and contains everything.

Many people walk down the hallways of my secret place.
With each clap of the foot on white marble, sound echoes.
The state of the sole makes no difference,
as the keeper cares nothing for race or standing – only the coming.

My secret place is filled with the light and joy of the sun;
the sky cannot speak the beauty nor the moon reflect its greatness.
There is always room to be filled yet it is full when only a few gather.
Alone, it is nothing. When people assemble in the cove, it is all.

Come with me and walk beside me in my secret place
for a time of restoration and healing within your depths.
The places of imitation may bewitch the mind,
but the consignation of your step here is rightly marked down.