Only for the Nothing.
“Make me feel my need of You.”
It’s often my carelessly muttered prayer as I stumble around in the mornings. But I forget how much I really think He needs me and that I’m the worthy one. Such a posture makes me hard and distant in my self-sufficiency. One day, it came hard in the pew: unbearable guilt and shame over these other lovers, pretty but deadly. I needed to see again that I made those wounds in those hands that plead my name.
The sanctuary’s rigid pew kept me still,
But my stormy mind refused to hush.
Thoughts were taken captive by an old friend I thought I’d moved past,
Who seemed to like these Sabbaths best
To bring bitterness to precious things.
Fierce attempts to be at rest and humble fell bloodied again, and grinning arrogance gained a decided seat.
Every try reeked of my unwelcome guest, dead to me – but we still held hands, tighter today it seemed.
No goodness this way. Let go.
Black sin-love was laid ugly and bare in the familiar good law,
And I wept over soul poverty with heavy confessions of need. I prayed to feel it, and it hurt, of course.
“It is sweet to be nothing” is truth, but only as the aftertaste
Of choking down this bitter pill – to ruin my heart-lean on anything plus.
I learned it again today and I only learn it hard.
It’s a Gospel of an Only,
And it’s only for the Nothing.