Map

Dear God,

 

As travelers through life, one collects vivid images of the past. They are tied together by the thread of memory. But as looked back on, one can be offered a confusing impression of  life in its totality. One can remember the mountains climbed and the valleys dwelt. The winding roads that led from one to the other, captured only by a glimpse, become unclear. A vigilant connection fades.

 

At the end of one's travels, etched steps will form a map. This map can reveal the unseen; those forgotten roads now become transparent. The fading dashed lines between joy and misery reach toward one another. Will the pathways that connected the journey be recognized? What of the linked steps along the dark, stony path? As feet bleed, will doubt capture every foothold? Or will that of a pilgrimage's sweet splendor remain?

 

Dear Map,

you do not prove,

but only state the way;

proof sought in demanding quest

can always betray.

 

Do you trust your maker

based on mere authority?

No,  show for My beauty

in the wandering of clarity?

 

Is it not written

I was to prepare the way;

a voice in the wilderness

to strengthen a pace?

 

I've been among 

those dark, stony paths,

so I might lead and comfort

the wild beast's wrath.

 

Did one ever hear blowing

in the whispered air,

"Be Silent, Come out"

to the wicked's snare?

 

Did one ever feel touching,

a gentle hand on a back,

lifting from the depths

amidst the jagged cracks?

 

Did one ever feel brushing,

a stroke of color on the mind,

its vibrancy remembered,

yet the palette undefined? 

 

Every bloodied step,

I rose and prayed,

alone in lonely place

where despair lay.

 

When cry shouts My name,

or silence casts blame,

I say, "Let us go,

and lost child, reclaim."

 

Does one think the leper

after being cured of his pain

journeyed blindly through life 

without another single stain?

 

I am the eyes in darkness,

a heart in strain,

a mind in doubt,

bound hands in blame.

 

Map, I am your maker,

to the path beautifully unfolding;

I am the winding road's connection,

to bloodied feet, forever molded.

-God

 

 

 

 

 

Please reload

 

© 2016 - 2018 by Becoming Sound.