Looking through a drawer of old files, I came upon a group of poems I had written some time ago, poems that might be called Love songs to God. Like this one:
Everything they say is true.
All the saints in their swoons and visions,
The poets in their passion,
The writers of the Bible, called ancient and distant:
"It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God."
The power of His Face,
Flung suddenly before me and called the world,
Is blinding.
I want to close my eyes yet peek between my fingers,
Hungry for one more blissful glimpse,
Yet gasping in an awe that tears at me with joy more piercing than pain.
My body flutters in the Wind,
The thunder of His Love is deafening;
I want to sing. . . .
God, please stay
And let me tiptoe into the midst of Thee,
A celebrant of this strange vast service
Called Life.
Another snippet, perhaps the beginning of an unfinished piece:
Winnower, winnower, winnower of my life,
Sift out all the grains of service
From all the chaff of strife.
Love, love, always love, and may that love repeatedly take form as service.
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