Psalm 4. John 6:66-68; Hebrews 11:1
When there is no muse to inspire,
When mind, body, and spirit tire,
Wearied by the mining
And refining of the precious ore of story;
When all doors before which I stand
Stick fast beneath my straining hand,
Or else fly open to a maze
I’ve days, weeks, months in wandering,
Only to find I’ve found naught but my starting place;
When blood and sweat and words and tears
And prayers and wishes made for years
Yield little that despairing eyes
Surmise as being worth the while:
What then?
What next, when nothing’s left?
To what else would I go?
I’ve found the home where heart resides,
And though I wait for change of tide
Another three-and-twenty fours of seasons,
I believe in that which I cannot yet see.
When I talk as if to air,
My senses saying nothing’s there,
And ask for any sort of sign on which to hold
When told by you I’d but to knock and enter;
When others shout or sigh in bliss
For some rapture I somehow missed
Despite, I thought, a daughterhood
Of good and faithful service, more or less,
Perhaps more less than more, but surely
It all counts for something;
When I doubt not you, but me,
Unsure of what you’d have me be,
And blindly grope for light I read–
You said– was in plain sight for all who seek:
Who’s there?
Please show me you are, for
To whom else would I go?
I know the truth, I trust the way,
And though I live to my last day
Not having any more of you than words and deeds of yore,
I store my hope in that which I cannot yet see.
See, no.
Feel? Nearer now. May your
Arms draw me nearer still.
Ever On Word 