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Tired of Display

I’m tired. Tired of everything becoming a race. Tired of everything being tied to a face. I’m undone by the sheer greed, The need to be known, seen, And received.

Were we really formed by a Potter or are we architects of our own universes? Defining beginnings, directing the rise and fall, Destiny, a hotpot recipe from the cookbook we authored in the womb. The centre of the universe, are we? Even shining stars explode in the end.

Why do I need to choose, Lord? Why couldn’t you define every part of my journey? After all, am I not the vessel of your making, A weapon you love to wield.

Am I not a fool here, and a servant there, Ready and willing to heed your every word? Have I not become your sacrifice on the altar, Burning so that fragrance could arise?

Is this what you required of me? Is this what I need to give? Every time I look within for something to offer, I find either garbage or absolute treasure, And I wonder what am I made of, after all? What gives my eyes the look of wonder, And also one of despondency? What makes me alive like this, alive to perceive and also be seen?

Is there a rhyme or reason, hidden in my so called purpose? Surely it can’t be just to be A cartful of apples at the Farmer’s market, Fresh for the buy and pleasing, To every scrutinising eye.

What if I don’t want to shine? What if I’d rather be a drop in the ocean? What if I can’t stand on a hilly slope, And light up all that’s below? What if I just want to roll, and gather no moss, But grow, and go till I reach the riverbank, Stay by the water’s side, have my picnic lunch.

Could you turn your gaze away? Would I cease to live if you did? Would I cause the world to sink if I looked away from you? Is there a moment you’ve wanted to be away from me? Unlovable as I seem to be… Could you hide yourself from me?

For many a long and broken night, I wondered Where you chose to go, just when I needed you. Where your attention was drawn to, as I waited there for rescue. I wondered, rather railed, at your so called sovereign decisions. How could this be good? How could it be God?

Far away as you were, how could you be a friend, Claim to be an ever-present help, maybe just around the bend?

I looked and looked. Waited and waited. And wept as I waited. Why couldn’t you come? Why wouldn’t you?

You told me, “faith is the open door to My palace.” I told the King, with your rules I don’t agree. Offence, the crime of the heart that blinds the offender, To the only cure they’ll ever find: A tender heart rid of all accusation, linear, transverse, 3D. And pain that deeply hurts, but deeply wants to heal.

Pain. You carried pain. A King, glorious, and yet you know sorrow. You know heartache. As if it grew within your own chest. You see brokenness, you’re not ashamed to acknowledge it.

And you saw me. Before I even formed the thought to be seen. You felt me, pain, shame and every other broken piece. Got your hands dirty, got Grace to ride shotgun on the journey, Of you and me back to your kind of reality. And when I saw that you truly didn’t care what they would say when they saw you with me, I saw you. I finally did.

And I knew, you’d rather display your own glory and hide my shame, Spend your entire treasury to bring me home, And call me free again, Make me yours again.

And you did. Showcase me, because I’ve seen you, and now, they will too.

~ p

(7th April, 2020)

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