When I fail I know you will succeed.
I dwell where dusty bones fill empty pews and love grows infirm and frail.
But your light: substantial, real, costly,
Breaks the heavy crust and weary doubt of hardened hearts.
Where I cannot win you cannot be stopped,
Because your ashes can no longer be burned
Nor your fire quenched. You are the street-level.
You are the army of the ever-living.
I know this because Satan has hated you,
But his burning intent and impotent brunt
Is brought up short, and has only seared you
With the determination, to stand.
I know even in poverty you are rich and where my life lacks yours will be filled.
Through Satan's warmed-over shit God has purified silver.
And while Pharisees and scribes beat their chest
Jesus is about fishermen, tax-collectors and sinners.
I know this church is tattooed and shabby.
It swaggers a bit, flies the bird too much
spits out profanity like watermelon seeds on a summer day
And pisses on church tradition.
But love leaves dusty pews behind in order to live in you,
In softened hearts beating in new skins:
Unafraid, unflinching, desperately beautiful.
Thus I know, even when I lose, in you God wins.
YOU ARE READING
Poem Sunday
PoetryYep. It's Sunday. Have a poem. I am foremost not a poet, but it was an early love. And it is a form of expression that deserves as much love as it can get.
