Categories
Poetry

An ark of acacia wood

You shall make an ark of acacia wood,

covered with gold.

If I were an Israelite, just out of Egypt,

wandering who knows where,

following a fiery, cloudy pillar

and a crazed old man,

what would this command signify?

I and those with me,

no home and no possessions

beyond what we carry with us,

make such a thing,

another thing to carry,

for the fiery, thunderous Voice

that makes us tremble?

Why?

How?

You shall make an ark of acacia wood,

covered with gold.

When I was a child I was told

one day I could be in a place

with streets made of gold,

gates of pearl,

miraculous trees

watered by a living river.

God lived there,

and one day, so might I.

It still captures my imagination.

You shall make an ark of acacia wood

covered with gold.

I never think about building heaven,

actually piecing it together

with my own hands.

It’s something provided,

provisioned by God himself.

It’s beyond me

my talent

my resources

my scope.

Only God builds heaven.

You shall make an ark of acacia wood,

covered with gold.

If I were an Israelite, just out of Egypt:

The wood, right here in the wilderness;

the gold, we carried as gifts out of Egypt;

the ark, something we never imagined,

but shown to us;

the skill, right here among us.

You shall make an ark of acacia wood,

covered with gold.

You shall make it.

See, everything is provided.

You shall make it;

and when you do,

I will dwell just above it,

hovering over your creation.


Grace and peace to you…

dw

Categories
Poetry

Note to self

To do
during COVID-19
or any other crisis
or any other normal time:

Love God with all I've got.
Love every person that crosses my path.
Love the people I don't like 
  and who don't like me.
Plead for God's will to be done here 
  as if this were heaven.

Act and speak accordingly.

Grace and peace to you…

dw

Categories
Poetry

This cup

Shall I not drink the cup the Father has given me?
This cup, just for me, appointed for me.
Chosen for me.

I could say No, not this cup.
Father, give me another;
I don’t want the one you chose for me.

I could say No cups for me,
thank you very much.
But one day I would wake up:
There, at my lips, sour, bitter,
would be the cup of my own making.

Every moment is another cup,
A cup I will drink to get to the following moment.

Shall I not drink the cup the Father has given me?
This cup, just for me, appointed for me?
Chosen for me?

 

dw

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