Things above.

If I were to be 

Born

To myself

All the earthly

Things would prize

Up before my eyes

And stack high,

A beautiful pile

That tastes of earth.

And all the routes toward 

The inner core

Of this world,

Mapped on my tongue,

A constant reminder

That me, I am in control,

One foot in front of the other.

But here’s the part 

that sparks

As I walk sure-footed

Down the lane

I never built with my own two hands:

The earth cracks and then rips

And dips down into the fiery 

Middle, the lair where

My own truth meets me 

Face-to-face.

I was not born to me

But born to You 

And crafted in such a way

That beauty was 

The thing inside me

But far too quickly 

Rotten away like 

A naked core 

That has been bitten

Clean by dirty teeth

And all who never

Really loved me.

My head, bowed now,

Eyes down and in the dirt,

The dirt that I didn’t make

With my own two hands,

I understand it, much clearer

Than when I had ever heard it before.

Here is death’s door, how You died

And overcame it,

And here is me,

The maker of nothing

But my own misery.

You sweep through 

Like wind and Spirit

To shut it slowly, that sound,

A creek that cracks right through

My middle, and I’m delivered

Reborn to the outer edge

Of heaven,

The taste in my mouth,

Washed and watered 

Clean,

My eyes set on things

Above.