A Restful Tree For A Wretched Me
My home is a sanctuary from the outside world
Doors locked, shades drawn. Nothing can get in.
Did I say nothing?
In the whisper of the night one thing remains.
Creator. Sustainer of life.
His voice speaks volumes in the silence.
Not with an audible call, but with words written down.
It calls me to go out and engage the world.
Not with a flash or some fancy pomp and circumstance,
but with an everyday happenstance.
With a simple wink and a smile or kind word to a child.
He calls me to live an everyday, ordinary life.
But with firm rebellion, I know I don’t want to.
I want to stay in with drapes drawn shut.
Mouth even more so.
So much trouble in the tongue.
Especially mine. No, I don’t miss that “fun”.
If I could stay in I would.
Locked away in my home.
Away from the world.
Not necessarily afraid of what’s out there,
but what’s inside here.
A heart so desperately wicked,
and un-forgivingly sinful.
Before a hand moves or a mind thinks,
a heart sins.
What is my hope for my most desperate hour?
Lonely whether night or day, is there a rescue for me?
A salvation that says, “come rest at my feet”?
I hear it clear in black and white.
Leaping from the page in my mind.
Often ignored, but never forgotten.
The words come forth as they have before.
There is a place for your head to find rest.
A place that requires no work or that you try your very best.
It’s at the foot of a tree that stands tall with no leaves.
But whose limbs drip blood sweeter than honey.
It’s a signpost on a hill for all to come unto.
It’s the deepest shade for a sin-scorched world.
It’s the sweetest fruit for the famished masses,
and a savory nectar for the those that thirst.
It washes you new, removes your worst filth.
It is the cross of the beloved Christ.
It is hope renewed, cleansing and food.
It’s all we need if we simply believe
and do nothing more than sit at the feet
and let it fulfill it’s purpose to save,
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