The Messenger

photo credit: hugin via photopin (license)
photo credit: hugin via photopin (license)
The Messenger





 

How does one say,
"I'm struggling"
when all eyes look away?

How does one say,
"I'm drowning"
when in sea
they've been cast away?
 

How does one say,
"I'm lonely" -
can't see the light of day,
when all has grown meaningless,
sorrow's moved in
to stay?
 

The narrow road stretches longer
than any believed it could,
and many who've travelled before us
have slipped into darkened wood.
 

I walk this path before me
trouble on every side
 I know it's not
 supposed to be easy,
but lately I want to hide.
 

I find no small comfort
in conversations I hear,
too many opinions
escape mouths-
giving rise to long held fears.

In my bones I sense
a trembling from
 beneath the place I stand
and all of earth
will crumble
at the sound of His command.
 

Many are distracted
with arguments
left and right,
forgetting first love's presence
they succumb in the fight-
thinking wise but foolish,
they cast their words
far and wide
barely recognizing
they've been mesmerized
 by Pride.
 

Though they think they stand,
they play their given hand
but in the end they're
swallowed
by their own hallowed land.
 

Wake up,
cried the prophet-
but they were busy serving God,
they let the hurting find other ways
to heal,
until all their hearts
did grow hard.
 

They gather among themselves
busy with many good works,
travelling in their own circles
avoiding where evil lurks.
 

But God looks down upon them,
looking down, sees through all
Mete's mercy upon mercy,
as He's done since before the Fall.
Israel's heart still beats
within, this fallen human race
and despite the many freedoms,
Self usurps God's exalted place.
 

Although He remains
Ruler over all
In the end His Word contains
the truth for us all.
 

Word to Blind who claim
they see- claim to know his name
you are blind, cannot see,
cease seeking your own fame-
Bend the knee, in the dark
of your secret place
not in public for all to see
but only seek His face,
in hidden, private, lonely spaces
where He can be found,
Perhaps there is still time,
before the last trumpet sounds.

The Messenger 9/20/15 #1

Published by enthusiasticallydawn

Dawn Paoletta is a life enthusiast who loves to juggle words, chug coffee, and journal excessively. You can find her gathering stones on the beach most mornings. She enjoys hanging out with her hubby, daughter and family pets in Narragansett, RI and shares her passion, poetry and prose @Enthusiastically, Dawn.

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