Life

There is a little hand that's moving,
In the darkness of its hiding place,
Its tiny fingers stretching,
Reaching for what it cannot see,

And this little life that's wakening,
Being made in secret,
Formed before the dawn of time,
And shaped to be just right,
Is waiting for her day to come,
To meet the world she cannot touch,

Her little toes are curled beneath her,
Eyes gray like stormy skies,
And creamy skin without blemish or flaw,
Untouched,
Perfect,
Her rosy lips and precious mouth,
Delicate and fragile,
A tiny tummy rising with breath,
And a head graced with wispy hairs,
Though no one sees her, she is darling,
Beautiful,

She doesn't have a name,
Because mama isn't waiting for her,
And daddy's gone now,
She tired of carrying her,
Weary of the burden,
She doesn't want to see her baby,
Her own,
Her flesh and blood,
She cannot bear to wait that long,
So she will not try,

And suddenly...

That life, that precious life,
Is no longer a long awaited gift,
No longer a creation waiting to be seen,
No longer a great expectancy,
She becomes an accident,
A choice,
And then she's gone,

The lovely mouth,
The silky hair,
The tiny hands curled into fists,
The pools of gray that were her eyes,
The perfect skin,
Gone.

Because her mama didn't want her,
Didn't love her,
Oh, if only she had seen her...
Held her in her arms...
Kissed her salty tears...
Touched her face...

Maybe then,
The world would have seen her too.

His Hands

As I look to the cross again,

I recall the story told so many times,

On that day were the world seemed to crumble,

And I see Your hands,

Your hands that reached down to this world,

Offering mercy and compassion,

Hands that extended abundant love,

And gave healing,

Gave rest,

Your hands that curled around Your mother's,

And held Your father's as he worked,

That patted the shoulder of Your friend,

And gave assurance,

Gave comfort,

Your hands that placed the stars in the sky,

That taught the moon to rise at night,

And the sun to fall at dusk,

And gave existence,

Gave life,

Your hands that washed Your servent's feet,

And fed a crowd of hungry people,

That lifted to calm a storm,

And gave peace,

Gave humility,

And I am reminded of these,

As I see Your scars,

And long to touch them, to take the pain instead,

To heal the hands that took the nails,

For a world undeserving,

But what then would those hands have served?

It was the only way.

A Painting

The ships came in this morning.
I stand at the rusting rail of my balcony, leaning just far enough over to see the mournful souls gather unwillingly, as if pulled by some strange and dark force, to the ships waiting patiently in shifting water. I can see them bowing their heads, the many that come in pairs, not out of reverance or humility, but out of sorrow and fear, allowing an ascent for their warm tears to fall and meet the solid ground beneath, mingling, confused with the ocean spray. The salty mist coming in blows from the harbor, breathed in like air, the only air they've ever known.
And I see her standing there.
She is not alone, but in only a few moments, either feeling as though an eternity or a blink in time, she will be. He stands beside her there on the docks, adjusting his hat atop his head, squinting his eyes above to see the bow of the ship. And she hugs herself to shut out the cold. Then I see tears. Many tears, again flowing freely from her fear stained eyes. She longs to wake from this dream that is reality. For her love will leave her today for these ships.
Today, he becomes a sailor, and the sea calls.
He knows it is time to say farewell. To, for the final time, dry the trickling tears from her eyes, and whisper against her ear, "I will come home." But she knows for certain he will not. For the sea is an angry creation, relentlessly taking lives as it pleases. And never giving back. She knows she is standing at the harbor for the last time, saying goodbye, waving him off. I can see her waving, until her arm aches. Crying until there are no tears left. Wishing. Dying.
The ships pull from the wooden docks.
And I too wave from my balcony, but with not the emotion of whom I look upon from here. She stands alone now. All alone. Alone in body and in heart. Her untamed hair blowing wildly in the wind, as it plays with it, trying so very hard to lighten her spirit, but inwardly she is being torn apart. And I know she is praying.
May not even the sea take his life.

Search For Greater Worth

He is afraid of the unseen,
And reaches for what righteousness means,
But there's always something hurting more,
And he cries, Jesus, make me pure,
And he stands to fight the fight of truth,
As evil and wickedness hotly pursue,
He endures what he can and falls to cry,
My God, how much longer must I try?
And he lives to serve but is so afraid,
That the debt he is in has not been paid,
So he trembles and breaks and cries to His God,
What is it I keep doing wrong?
And the road that he walks winds endlessly,
If only he could stop and see,
That his future holds more than a world of sin,
More than failing and countless attempted wins,
Then maybe he'd stand, and dare to dream,
Of the things that once were more than they seemed,
Then would he cry out with his hands unbound,
This man was lost but has been found!

Audience

Love sings a sweet song,
That calls to the hopeful,
Reminding them there's reason to try,
And though they've grown weary,
They sing with the ocean,
Lifting their hands to the skies,

And proclaim to the mountains,
As glory and majesty,
Quickly surround them like air,
And strong as the thunder,
Come voices of rising praise,
As worship is heard everywhere,

And there they bow humbly,
Those who seek love alone,
And find it to be drawing them in,
Like waves of the ocean,
Embracing them one by one,
Cleansing and washing their sin,

Turning to praise again,
They lift up holy hands,
Gladly acclaiming their King,
Worthy is He of this,
He who made all things,
Their voices rise and they sing,

And their love sings a sweet song,
Calls from the hopeful,
Reminder of reason to try,
When though they grow weary,
There is One who listens still,
One who is seated on high,

He listens with mercy,
Showers down love and grace,
Giving as He gave His Son,
And that's why they praise Him,
God of the universe,
The glorious audience of one.