The Book Room

In this heavy room
the titles burn me, stab me;
Phrases dragging me down -
rows and rows of weights.
They stand there, sharp-toothed, just waiting
for my eyes to touch their spines.
This room draws in the seeking
hurting grieving lonely with
Dangled relief always a little out of reach.
What ruthless heartless gaping
appetite this space has!
Amplifier of ache;
What cruel, cold gravity!

The Father

Father, Father of flowering fields and
hungering human hearts -
You are fire, you are flame, you are freedom;
You are searing scalpel shining.

I am ash and ache, all
Bent and bruised, and Breaking
God's good and very good;
Tromping, treading, tearing, shredding
Leaves and petals pure, leaving
Battle-scars in brothers' arms, and
gracious givers grieving.

You, You wreck the rebel raging raw, with
Love, living light, a bright
Blazing furnace burning flaws and fatal bonds.

Me you see as complete and pleasing,
A sight radiant
with the Son's rays rising.

Father, Father of faithful fumbling followers -
You joy in each breath of this, my jagged journey.