Expectant

 

Word of God, articulate me into sanity,

Even my purest thoughts seem profanity,

They’re tainted with the bitterness of tears,

Spilled over graves for too many years.

 

I lack the skill to turn my yearning into prayer,

I can’t make sense if I’m a line or I’ve become a square.

I pretend that what I know of You is my consolation,

Like the shockwaves haven’t reached my foundation,

Like a bomb didn’t go off inside my core,

Like my world doesn’t feel like a pile of stones and gore…

 

But this I call to mind, therefore I have hope:

That Your unchanging love is not myope,

That it sees deeper than the deep and further than the far,

That it can cauterize any fathomless wound into a scar,

That You don’t delight in a destitute soul’s affliction,

That You can turn ashes into a crown, and pain into benediction.

 

So here I am waiting at my watch post on the tower,

By Your grace, the birds of prey will not make me cower,

I’ll watch until You speak life back into my bones,

And then I’ll raise and know what to do with all my broken stones. 

 

by Cristina Pop