who spoke a garden into a man,
into a story that still keeps telling–
You are the first letter on the page,
the string of sense in all that is.
You are the silence between the words and
I am not able to speak.
Not only are my lips as unclean as Isaiah’s,
but I am afraid.
And I am tired.
I am easily distracted by what is not Word,
my own too-small vision.
I confess that I do not understand
what you call me to do.
I confess that I know you keep calling me to do it.
Christ have mercy.
Thank you for the gift of language.
Frail and fractured as it is,
words still puncture into presence,
overtake our nerves.
Thank you for eyes to read,
ears to notice.
Thank you for speaking
the native tongue of mystery.
Take this writing time.
Make Your Home in it.
Exultant Author, hover over these moments,
linger in this ink,
speak through this hand.
Restore Your world
through your everlasting Word.