Run right out of customary lines, handled with artistry the things that hurt so bad. Forgotten to get mad or sad because its so much better to be glad than suffer all the dismal and dreary aspects in the margins. Fishing for secrets among the answers in a barrel full of documents that I was never meant to find. Sir, I dream of reason and in the light I find the noise. For everyone wants evidence that peace is probably better than living on the edge of war fought among the blind. Trying to make a difference and then convince them things are better, when they long for a return to yesteryear’s and fears left so unkind. Unwinding all the audio so that they can hear their voices, magic of the memory it remembers based on wishes.
Lord, don’t leave me alone to organize my thoughts, which are so often so poorly thought that they should never have left my mind. Engage me in this battle of time and reason, fighting among themselves to make sense of history. Too much perspective or is it too many? Angles and versions and platitudes and accounts. What could it all be about with stakes so high as souls and lives of innocent lost to pay some mystic price in feeding machines of consumption? Is that it, that there are drives to eat it all, to see it all used up, every flower crushed, carbon based energy burnt up or fuel consumed by engines fury? Is that the definition of evil that it seeks to leave nothing but dust in its wake? No plant, no breath, no life, no heart, nothing left for beauties ponderer.
Again am I measured by how much I leave to be used, captured, stored, pledged or sustained by all those who come after? Or perhaps what I lay down to aid them in endeavors so majestically mustered? Shall a child breathe better, a man live lighter an widow escape sorrow or build a home in the abundance of joy that she accumulated in my passing? Isn’t that the mark, having lived for God and not for self? Having put “me” upon the shelf of my own aspirations, replaced by higher calling to build, define, encourage, edify and leave in faith and trust. What must be done to see the dream completed, contented, cemented in the real that will always remain? Or will it all pass and only intention remain, so that what was done is the measure after all? Withering willows pass to sleep while perpetual memory of her weepy blossoms remain, treasured as the true meaning within a life so brief.
There are no new tricks for me, but to provide, feed, help and support. Nothing left for me to give but the cattle on a thousand hills belonging to me only as inheritance. The passion’s of a son working according to His Father’s direction, spending time and dime for the King’s demand. And when they see me in passing I ask that they remember Him for after all He is responsible for all the impossible and possible I will have ever done. In Jesus’ Mighty, Holy and Righteous Name. Sleep well and dream of Him.