Tuesday, August 10, 2010

The Vine

I fall from you again
and again
and again,
peeling myself from your patience,
landing in a place so sharp
blades of grass and gravel-crumbs
slide knife-like through my soles.

I have learned some facts
from independence:

That, apart from you,
the sun weakens and weeps and finds
no strength to rise in the morning.
His kingdom is easily stolen, and no gift
streams gold and warm from his spread hands.
The sky stands empty,
a twisting and blackening place.

Apart from you,
death grips me by the root
and presses blue lips to my curling leaves.

Blinding One, come look for me.
You will find me rotting
in the deep shadows of a starving land.
Have mercy—don’t consume your leaking offshoot,
bruised with overuse and wrung with shame.
Graft me, stitch me, take me, come remake me
whole again and one
with you, my Jesus, ever-loving Lord,
my sweet fresh home and deep salvation strong.