That night
beneath the tent, people worshipped
with tambourines tied to ropes
slung across their chests
never at rest
but for this week you have called me to rest.
Remember, I cried out, "Don't make me beg for you, LORD,
Why should I beg to see you?
You promise to come so won't you
come, GOD. Come like the consuming fire
I see you are to them, GOD."
I sang, "Selah. Selah. Selah."
I sang "Selah," and then paused.
They beat tambourines and I
watched them dance, one still small shell on an underlying,
undulating shore of worship. They were
rocked by your relentless love and I sat
unmoving.
Why this hardened heart, O LORD?
I want your LOVE revealed, LORD. Release me
into joy to dance, to shout, to love
like you love, GOD.
And if it means you break
me into pieces
then I want brokenness–
knowing you, LORD,
are the Potter and I am just
red Georgia clay.
I will trust this
relentless love.
Even when I don't feel you.
Even when I don't feel you.
And I admitt that I don't know.
I don't know who I am.
I don't know who I am.
And I don't feel anything except this deep
crying out to deep.
I want to know the unknowable.
I want you to mold the unmoldable.
Take me into worship, GOD.
Take me by my hand into worship, LORD.
I want to know what it means to worship, ABBA.
Show me the one I worship, GOD.
Selah.
I came home with feet turned
red– stained with the kind of color
Georgia clay perscribes–
good for the soul and quieter,
if that were possible.
