Unrehearsed, emptied out before your feet, hoping not for pity but forgiveness and the opportunity for rebirth. Lost in the wicked thinking of a man who serves himself god. Pouring over the pages and wishes, wants, worries and undignified dreams finding the tears now to recall the unrelenting sadness I was incapable of admitting or handling. Impressions abandoned time forgotten and missteps willingly acknowledged not for purpose but just because it is the right thing to do when you’ve squandered the Master’s assets and brought dishonor to a Father who wanted, supported and deserved the best from a gifted and blessed Son. There must be something hereafter. I know it from your Promises and pray beyond capacity to declare the hope that these words were and are still meant for a dishonorable bull’s posterior like me.

There is no validation, no going before a jury of unfaithful to find some semblance of reconciliation for the awful actions, thoughts and missed opportunities I sold for a handful of nightmares, daydreams and misdirection. Nothing stands monument to that investment but the gray palsied ashes of this life spent upon folly, frivolity and distasteful pursuit. It is okay this thing, this place to which I find arrival. This moment seeing the negative valuation of the stock of a man’s existence, watching now as observer no pray tell not wishing to participate but move on from the wisdom of the dismal, the failure of man’s own constructive nonsense, the years of fool’s delight and wish assets had been used to construct eternity instead. That is the price the painful nagging and gnashing regret, the worm that bites the mind as man is forced to catalog a life spent for naught. That is the prison of a life poorly pursued and God ill attended.

He sees. That is some consolation prize to find myself in the counsel of His Perfect Eyes. It is known, and to be known by ones maker is certain as each fault was crafted in silent purpose each failure a gifted opportunity to exalt each day a humbling gift provided to pursue the everlasting, to grow the crops that bring joy to the Father’s heart. yes, failure is a good thing when success leaves one wanton, questing for the next entry in the experiential paradigm. No pattern finished in tapestry all broken leading to labyrinthian wander and uncompleted divinity. What is not built counts as nothing in the datafile of a man’s life for their is wasted effort column only Nothing to show for time, treasure, gift and grace. Perhaps nothing is enough, smelling of smoke he will allow a man the chance to welcome those having served in good conscience. Maybe their sandaled feet will need cleaning as they seek audience with the King of Kings? Perhaps there is a spot at the back of the gathering for a man who has nothing left to offer but the shell saved from the wasting fire of hell’s consumption?

On this Floor Lord, let me lay not in sadness of having been total failure but merely seeing your feet I know that I have won. Whatever is made or done let it be of your counsel and provocation or order. For I have nothing left but the contentment and will to serve. That is perhaps what I have always wanted and it took me arriving at the foot of your Throne to see my True place before my God, Father, King. Home.