While in a prayer meeting this week this question and the answer came quick. I had started with the question of Isaiah the prophet’s poetry which I suppose we can call the Lord’s poetry. Who reads God’s Word deeply? And then question in my mind “Well for that matter, who reads poetry? Who reads poetry?”
The answer came as a picture first and then as words.
Who reads poetry?
Perhaps those who will
tarry under trees
‘till their souls
rooted in soil
breathe
again.
I. O Mortal, what is required of thee?
To act justly.
When
the man at the top
refuses to be
the man at the bottom
he will not be
for the people.
II. O Mortal, what is required of thee?
To love mercy.
When
your counsellors have retired,
When
your news is on repeat,
When
your body has resigned,
do you sleep?
III. O Mortal, what is required of thee?
To walk humbly with my God.
When
the man at the bottom
refuses to be
the man at the top
he will not be
for himself alone.
You have searched me, LORD and you know me.
My life of aspiration
Was bought in sweat and deception
For my ancestors came from the wrong nation
And were treated with contempt and degradation.
You created my inmost being and knit me together in my mother’s womb.
In every space I have tried not to die
’till a friend said, “Go West young man,
They love the truth.” So I have arrived to find
The truth is not enough — they would rather hear a lie.
Search me, God, and know my heart, test me and know my anxious thoughts.
Peace eludes me.
I don’t have a way.
Truth enslaves me.
I don’t want to hide.
See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.
I love life.
The soft blue swatch
that caught my eye
would not yield–
either
a tale of security
or the song of your
wild fortunes.
My questions could not penetrate
the folds of your recent past,
yet gratitude swept over me like light on ancient paths,
illuminating our common plot
and the Spirit’s gracious gifts —
the free
must have room to grow
and time for wings
to stretch.
Just a stick in the mud.
You struck me with
those careless words
a little phrase
it turned my head.
I filed it till
it became a bowl
fit for blood, sweat
and bitter tears.
With those shavings
I stoked a fire whose
flames smelled of
cold cursed ambition.
I stoked it
till it nearly
killed me.
I stoked it
’till true wisdom
turned me
against the grain
of your casual
disregard.