it should be enough.
Here we are again, falling for that old, parasitic idea that fulfillment lies in man’s approval and immediate satisfaction. It seems our fallen habit is broken only to sneak back into the overlooked places, or perhaps the same ones again. It’s a painful repetition. We come to Grace repeatedly, wearied by today’s scant faith and short-sighted hope, yet still find that the promises do not hinge on such mutable things.
Jesus is mine and all is well, but I want
And sway by the swaying wants of men.
Love is mine and truth is real, but I feel
Less comfortable than before.
Song and story are mine, but true glory
Is not weighty and I think the beauty is me.
Goodness is mine and my hands are full, but I
Grasp the wind and must still learn
That no one else will do.
Here, the heart knows unsettledness: Place evades my certainty
And friends marry friends while I still long for that.
Another tomorrow came, and I have been carried by
Another will, but it all seemed so statically silent
Instead of brilliant with the news of my dreams come true.
When I lean again to feel that it is not