Processing

Every once in a while I will post a poem instead of a regular blog while doing my daily writing.  I never bothered to explain where these poems come from, so I'm going to take the time to do that now.   Whenever I am struggling with something and am having trouble processing the situation and how I should react, I write poetry as a prayer.  I describe my struggle and then consider what God is trying to teach me or say.  

Here is something I wrote a few months ago while struggling to understand reoccurring sin and unfailing love:

I see the light.  Its dim from here,

  from this dark shadow in which I hide.

But I feel your call to step deep within,

  pulling me forward like the tide.

But while I want to come to you,

  there are two things that I fear.

And though they should not cross my mind,

  they have kept me frozen here.

The first is my good deeds,

  which seem so bright.

I fear they will be lost

  in your perfect light.

My pride demands I do not go,

  telling me I've worked to hard and long

To see this world, this me, collapse,

  beneath a love infinitely strong.

The other master that I serve,

  is not my pride, but my shame,

That keeps my wounds from healing

  and reminds me of my pain.

"They'll see your faults, your flaws, your scars,"

  the whispering voice begins to shout.

"You ugly, broken, messed up child.

  Stay in here.  You can't go out."

And so I'm trapped by shame and pride,

  struggling between the two

All the while longing to taste

  the cleansing love that I once knew.

Still, you beckon me to the light.

  I feel your heart pulling strong.

You haven't given up on me yet,

  though this road is hard and long.

"Stand in my glory," you ask of me.

  "Come, my child, draw near.

You cannot see the prison your in,

  unless your standing over here."

"You good deeds will indeed seem small,

  And I will see each thing that mars,

But your sin, too, will be outshone

  And you are not the only one with scars."

He reaches out and I see it there,

  the nasty wound upon his hand

With tearful gaze I meet his eyes,

  and on shaky legs begin to stand.