Search me,
oh God!
What will
you find?
A contrite
heart,
Or one
belligerently blind?
I strut,
beguiled in my surrendered life,
Thinking –
like Abraham, I have raised the knife.
When lo and
behold,
In
contradiction with my lips,
I find my
heart is bloody in my grip.
The throne
is not vacant,
It is my
fulfillment I procure.
The capstone
has become the stepping-stone
That my
satisfaction might be secured.
He has not
become my aim,
My arrow has
gone amiss.
I long to
minister to His needs
In response to
that first kiss.
Now, my
sorrow has turned to hope
As He utters
those prophetic words.
He inspires
my heart to my rightful place:
A drink
offering heavenward.
