Hymn of Awe
A hymn of awe is what I would compose. But the things that I would, I do not, and the things that I would not, I do. I am like a flower, pressed into a book of words that mean nothing to me, I am illiterate in this language of the gods.
You are the Master Writer, the All-Important Linguist. You are what You are. And what that is exactly, I am not sure. But I know that Whoever You must be, it is Good, Kind, Just, and Merciful. For this is what You claim to be, and though these words so rarely make sense, I understand what Love is...at least, in practice, if not theory.
I know why they ate, I suppose we all do. For we all have this longing to be like You. I wonder if that is Evil’s ultimate strategy, to change that one word in our being from “with” to “like.” Deceptively simple, yet intensely effective. I know why they ate. Because I eat myself, each day, each hour, each minute I struggle with plucking the fruit of “self” instead of “Spirit.” I am vile, wicked, and low. A dead flower that most would call a weed.
But You do not seem to see me so. That I do not understand. For the words are too high for me to comprehend. You say it is because of Love You have. But this Love is not something I understand. I know only mortals’ imitation of such. I grasp only glimpses. Fleeting images that whisper me to me of profundity, yet I cannot reach an understanding. They haunt me, in dreams and day sleep. I soar to the greatest of heights, sink to the deepest of depths, but all to no avail. Lengthy, request ridden prayers do not the trick, nor do intense studies of the Word and His words. Nothing is linear in this system of Yours, it’s like boxing. Everything is done backwards, you lean into the pain.
I cannot understand. Nothing makes sense, not anymore. I’m treading this water that I’m suppose to be walking on, but I can’t help but feel powerless in this vastness of energy of Yours.
Illiterate, I am, in this language of Yours. I catch only the briefest and most meaningless of phrases. Or so they seem to me. I cannot connect them. Trapped, protected, in this passing beauty of Yours (we call it Home, You call it Earth). I am like a flower, pressed in tight, in a beloved book of Yours. (Title, author, and plot escape me.). If I could, I would weep. But flowers were made for smiling. For the things I would, I do not. And the things that I would not, I do.
A hymn of awe should be composed. But who am I to do so? Illiterate and poor, woe am I.
Woe. Woe. Woe.
But You whisper in my night, “A-men, my darling dear, Faith.”
And so I smile. Pressed in tight by Your Book. Using these vulgar words to compose my hymn of awe. And with a faint whisper, I mimic You, "A-men, Papa, Yes."
You are the Master Writer, the All-Important Linguist. You are what You are. And what that is exactly, I am not sure. But I know that Whoever You must be, it is Good, Kind, Just, and Merciful. For this is what You claim to be, and though these words so rarely make sense, I understand what Love is...at least, in practice, if not theory.
I know why they ate, I suppose we all do. For we all have this longing to be like You. I wonder if that is Evil’s ultimate strategy, to change that one word in our being from “with” to “like.” Deceptively simple, yet intensely effective. I know why they ate. Because I eat myself, each day, each hour, each minute I struggle with plucking the fruit of “self” instead of “Spirit.” I am vile, wicked, and low. A dead flower that most would call a weed.
But You do not seem to see me so. That I do not understand. For the words are too high for me to comprehend. You say it is because of Love You have. But this Love is not something I understand. I know only mortals’ imitation of such. I grasp only glimpses. Fleeting images that whisper me to me of profundity, yet I cannot reach an understanding. They haunt me, in dreams and day sleep. I soar to the greatest of heights, sink to the deepest of depths, but all to no avail. Lengthy, request ridden prayers do not the trick, nor do intense studies of the Word and His words. Nothing is linear in this system of Yours, it’s like boxing. Everything is done backwards, you lean into the pain.
I cannot understand. Nothing makes sense, not anymore. I’m treading this water that I’m suppose to be walking on, but I can’t help but feel powerless in this vastness of energy of Yours.
Illiterate, I am, in this language of Yours. I catch only the briefest and most meaningless of phrases. Or so they seem to me. I cannot connect them. Trapped, protected, in this passing beauty of Yours (we call it Home, You call it Earth). I am like a flower, pressed in tight, in a beloved book of Yours. (Title, author, and plot escape me.). If I could, I would weep. But flowers were made for smiling. For the things I would, I do not. And the things that I would not, I do.
A hymn of awe should be composed. But who am I to do so? Illiterate and poor, woe am I.
Woe. Woe. Woe.
But You whisper in my night, “A-men, my darling dear, Faith.”
And so I smile. Pressed in tight by Your Book. Using these vulgar words to compose my hymn of awe. And with a faint whisper, I mimic You, "A-men, Papa, Yes."