I rage, I toil, I cower and sweat.
I have not met my maker yet
and if I meet him I shall say,
‘Please come again another day.
I am not ready. I am not ripe.
The times not right!’ I’d wail and gripe.
I’d beg of him right there some sign
that he was fair; that fate aligned
and gave me all that I deserved
not less and from the path I swerved
by some dark power ill beset
to full crescendo of regret.
And in the whisper there I heard
the tempest break at silent words.
I knew, and he reminds me now,
that I deserved much worse allowed
for fate is held by piercèd hands
that save each one from fair demands.
From instant darkness, ash, and flame
and takes upon himself the blame
So God the Father please forgive
my angry heart; my will to live.
Teach me—slowly—how to die
that I might live for more than lies—
not what I see but for the hearts
That beat for thee—in distant parts—
a tune you love to hear and share:
The music of the lives you cared
enough to bring out from the dark.
And each that beats and stills you mark
as yours—this orchestra of strings.
So take my heart and make me sing:
Now in life and then in death,
may all I do; may every breath
be all for you my Elohim—
the Ever Greater Than He Seems.
