Psalm 23

 

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I cannot remember the words.
Though I walk through the valley of death.
Your rod and your, oh I can’t think of the word!
Fear no evil.

My body shakes and sweats.
I can’t control any of it, the
way it wails, stuck in this
one single minute that will not pass.

I cannot remember the words.
You anoint my head and there is
a table with my enemies.
Green pastures.

My hands grab my head.
The throbbing pain threatens
to overtake me completely
with the strain of coughing out my guts.

I cannot remember the words!
Psalm 22, Jesus cries out.
Psalm 24, lift up your head.
Shadow of death.

My head rests on the cold toilet.
Tears are running down and
no one is here. No one is coming.
Quiet waters.

Help me, Lord!
Jesus. Lord Jesus.
Help me, stop this, heal me!
Comfort me.

My eyes open to the sun
Settling in squares on the floor.
The pain is quiet, the throbbing still.
He makes me lie down in goodness and love.

 

Return to Your Rest

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The clock ticks,
each moment a reminder
of the uncertainty of now.

The wind rattles,
each bang an interruption
of an idea never born.

The rain pounds,
each drop a harbinger
of the coming storm.

A child cries.
A dog barks.
A siren blares.

Silence seems but a symphony of noises,
and I am gasping for air.

Oh, return to your rest, my soul,
for the LORD has been good to you.

 

Being Transformed

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The deep pain it is to be molded,
fingers pressing in and around,
kneading the spots that are sensitive
and sore to the touch.

The potter shapes and forms,
coaxing his subject and speaking softly
as he works this would-be treasure
into a new creation.

The outside begins to reveal its purpose
and the potter could stop,
but he pushes on and the clay’s
insides scream to be let alone.

The fire is too hot and too much
of the old self seeps out,
leaving a seemingly empty vessel
for which there is no going back.

The potter eyes his formation,
stronger now because of his hands,
but still unsure and resistant
of this being transformed.