"The whole outlook of mankind might be changed if we could all believe that we dwell under a friendly sky and that the God of heaven, though exalted in power and majesty, is eager to be friends with us." - A.W. Tozer


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Thursday, October 15, 2015

The Field

Yesterday’s yesterdays jumble and pile.

I wake,

and walk — 


I shuffle with leaden legs in numbing rhythm, 

rousting a sacred cloud that accompanies

my tracing of Hope’s path.

Spent flora, trapped in brittle nests

offer silent tribute to

by-gone seasons of life.

With dulled eyes skimming 

the frustrated landscape,

I plant with wobbly resolve.

And wait.

I return

to this Field of Promise

a beggar — 


Dank grayness surrounds me; 

I’m chilled —  

from the inside out.

Hushed tormenting sameness

tensions my faith

toward thinness.

A violent tumult of

what is, what isn’t, and what should be

usurps all cognition.

Dear God, Sower of this Field —
Wrestle life from

the starved soil

of this bewildered soul.

Rake, pull, tear, and burn

my prideful thatch.

Plow the deadness

into furrows of grace.

Water and Light, 

come nourish my anguish.

Release in me a joyful submission

and patience’s fruit.

Call forth a sprig of green.

For tomorrow I’ll wake, 

and walk to this Field again.

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