Of Words

Between waking and sleeping, there is a strange sound

Of gentle feet walking upon the firm ground
And He comes to brush the words on my lips
With the whispered caress of His finger tips

And He whispers in the back of my mind, “Write.”
So I slowly reach for the pen and grip tight,
And I'm annoyed, and tired, and I'd been crying,
And He just waits, and annoyed, is sighing.

I don't want to write. Not this time.
Yet not doing so... Well, seems like a crime.

And it's so hard to write what's so cliché,
But the words are seared to my soul, there to stay.

The words are hard to write and hard to erase,
Like writing on stone, etched permanently in place

Writing them down makes them solid, real,

Staring me in the face, all official, like a seal.

Those five simple words: “Trust Me. Do not fear.”

Are the hardest words for me to write, to hear.
They are the terms most difficult for me to accept
Because I can't see clearly the path's next step.

The words leave me irritated and unsatisfied.
That's the truth. Otherwise, I'd have lied.

Ticking Clock

Amongst the chaos and the endless noise, there remains one persistent sound: a faint, continuous ticking. It is as if the second hand of a clock had become autonomous and entered itself into the very fabric of the physical world. It echoes, magnified in my brain and consuming me. Sometimes, it is the only thing I hear in the melee, and I wonder if I’m trapped inside the belly of a giant timepiece.

Tick, tick, tick.

And even as I debate that image, I look around and wonder at the people surrounding me, going along with their mundane routines, their regularity and predictability. Can’t they hear it? They do not act as if they have, and there is no visible change or indication of such. Perhaps, if they do hear the incessant tempo, they do not care. How could they not? This maddening noise, sometimes seeming louder, sometimes fainter. It’s elusive, yet constant, and it numbs my brain.

The rhythm has changed recently, and it gives me pause. It carries a sense of urgency now, and I swear that somewhere, in some plane of existence, there is a small black box with bright neon red numbers ticking away. Are there days or hours left? Maybe just minutes, seconds… 03:12.7, 03:12.6, 03:12.5, and so on? Soon it will tick its last tock and stop at zero. Who started it anyway? Who pressed the timer: the giant red programming button often oversized and ostentatious in movies and TV shows? Does it even look like that? Can’t they hear it? Why can’t they hear it?

Tick, tick, tick.

            … And yet, perhaps it is not a matter of hearing. The beats reverberate within my very soul. Did I always hear it? Was it always there? I think so… but my ability to comprehend its singular note has changed, deepened even as I took on my task of watchman. Here, at my post, I am awake to its constant presence. Now, more so than ever before, I watch, and wait, and wonder.

They need to hear it. They must. I know I do not fully understand the message myself, and yet, I know it has meaning, and I know it is important. As I stand on the tower walls, I can feel the firm sense of foundation slipping away as the time counts down… crumbling, tumbling, falling. Please, please, hear my words. Please, please understand!

Tick, tick, tick.

I wonder what will happen when that clock strikes zero. The anticipation of its coming does not frighten me, necessarily. In the deep recess of my being, to the corners of my soul, I rise in preparation, in excitement… in want? What does it truly mean? I am not sure that there are words able to describe its full purpose. I do realize how cryptic my words sound, and they match the echoing tempo rising in my mind. Part of my soul understands, at least, without telling my head. I don’t really need my head to know, though, do I?

What happens at the end of the clock? At the end of time?

It’s not the end of existing, though, is it?

Tick, tick, tick.

Tock.

Silence falls…

…it begins.

~~~~~~~

“But of that day or hour no one knows, not even the angles in heaven, nor the Son, but the Father alone. Take heed, keep on the alert; for you do not know when the appointed time will come.”    Mark 13:32-33 NASV

"Dance with Me."

“Dance with Me,” is Your whispered request,
And I don’t understand your silent behest.
Still, You gave Your gently uttered word,
And I debate whether it’s completely absurd.

You’re holding out Your scarred hand,
But You’re a gentleman and won’t force me to stand.
There’s doubtful hesitation on my part,
Due to the scarred flesh of a wounded heart.

And You’re still waiting, so I grasp Your fingers,
While a tingle of trepidation still lingers.
Gracefully, You lead me to a garden glade,
Where all the allusions of the world melt and fade.

And I simply become that joyful child
In her blue cotton dress, meek and mild.
Twirling bare feet in Summer grass,
Dizzy, hoping time would never pass.

No audience, no prying, judging eyes,
Face lifted heavenward, staring into the skies,
Because in a child’s mind, it’s where You live.
Hearing an unheard song, this is what she gives:

A simple dance for You, blowing You kisses,
And it is You her young heart misses.
The wind caresses her sun-kissed cheek,
And she dances for You ‘til her knees are weak.

So I hear the song begin again, soft and slow,
Hear the tempo whisper in my heart, light and low,
And dance in Your arms because You love me,
And I love you. Those words will remain forever true.