I open my eyes to morning light
and You are already there
waiting, listening -
I have only to whisper
within the stillness of
my heart.
I give you the day,
the one You
penned before I was born,
And You stand
with outstretched hand.
I walk with heavy heart,
discouraged and confused.
You listen, with infinite patience
to the words You've
heard so many times before,
and send the answer once again.
No well-deserved condemnation
or reproach,
simple grace that embraces
this troublesome child,
and gathers up the tears.
How to say, with simple words,
what such love means.
The heart cannot speak
clever lines and perfect prose;
it's language is the
giving of itself to the One
who gave everything.
Joining Emily today at imperfect prose:
Blessings,
Linda
