Lord, tie up my expectations like a pretzel
and replace them with a welcome mat
upon which are written only 4 words:
“Thy will be done.”
Lord, press into the soft, unmarrowed places
of make believe love and headstrong hypocrisy
your thumbprint still dirty from
pinching me alive.
Lord, impale me upon the stake of truth,
not the truth of deception in perfect answers
but the Truth that leaves open wounds
on a heart that only looks for niceties.
Lord, sit me down at the base of this wood
pounded together with the same nails
that tore through flesh softer than love,
tougher than hate.
Lord, with meddling tongue tied behind my back
let my hands, now free
show my mouth that it’s silence
has gifted those I now serve.
Lord, interrupt the long stream of my proclamations
of ideas diminished by my words;
words lesser still than those who listen
for something better than words.
Lord, fill my life with the awesome silence
of a boisterous heaven, singing in praise;
for only then will what I say and do
remind others of who you say I am.
Painting by James Seward