Son

I can not comprehend you. 

Like an insect contemplating the vastness

of time and space,

or a speck of dust the calculations of thought,

I am so small, and my mind so chronically finite,

that I can’t begin to fathom the substance

of your being 

or the framework of your mind.  

How could I seek you out

and where is it that you make your abode?

If I call up to the heavens

would the sound of my voice reach your ears?

If I shut my mouth and closed my eyes

would you hear the thoughts of my heart?

If my ignorant ire was leveled at you,

and the anger of my lips

and the raising of my voice,

would you strike me with your fist?

Or would you listen and understand 

how feeble I am

and think in your heart that you should pity

such a one as me?

 

You are nothing like men

and I am nothing like you.

I am so broken and frail, 

soot and ash, dust and bones.

And you, you are perfect and flawless,

radiant and brilliant, light and life.  

By what means could I ever mean a thing to you,

and what of any comparable worth 

could I ever have to give to you?

The flawed work of my hands?

What of it??!!

The trembling words of an unclean tongue?

What could I say??!!

The broken shards of my life?

The jagged edges and ill-fitting pieces?

This blackened heart, hardened and slow of beating?

This wicked mind, full of darkness and deceit?

What value could I possibly afford of myself

that it should be a worthy offering?

 

With what madness have you set your love upon me?

With what pain have you pined for me?

With what patience have you waited for me?

With what longing on your countenance have you looked upon me?

With what tenderness have you picked up the pieces

to mend me and to make me whole?

With what care have you handled my frailty? 

With what kindness have you washed away my filth?

With what open arms have you embraced me?

With what luxury have you given me belonging?

 

What am I to you that you should hold me in such regard?

A vagabond, a ruffian, a rebel, a whore!

But in my cursing you blessed.  

In my fleeing you pursued.  

In my transgression you forgave. 

In my destruction you wrought life.  

And in my madness you brought peace.  

What am I to you that you should hold me in such regard?

But you call me son.  

◄ Blind

Am I Enough? ►

Comments

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Shehariah

Sat 8th Aug 2020 21:07

Po, haha!! Or lunch or breakfast.

It is very hard for me to actively do nothing.

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Paul Sayer

Thu 6th Aug 2020 22:55

You can call anything Shehariah, except late for dinner.

People find it to hard to actively do nothing.

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Shehariah

Wed 5th Aug 2020 13:29

Amatul, thank you. I have often wrestled with my relationship with God.

Paul, first, can I still call you Po? Secondly, yes. I am finding that is something I am having to be very intentional about.

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Paul Sayer

Wed 5th Aug 2020 07:03

We must take time to take time.

Amatul Wadud

Wed 5th Aug 2020 06:12

What a thought .... communicated beautifully the thoughts to God.

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