My Home
A child the world endures but doesn't need,
a burden, hates herself no less than it,
dry-eyed with anguish until one bead
small, almost lost on cheeks alit
lands gently in a crystal jar
caught by the King of Kings, the great
I Am--the bright and morning star,
"You're not the one who others hate,"
He says, "Come, listen to Me now.
I've gone beyond the world you see.
I've made a place for you to bow
for you to fly, beloved, free.
Your heartsick flesh accuses, reels
returns to dust.� I wrote a name
for you beyond all this that heals
I made a place you can't destroy,
where water cleanses--you can cry,
and being with you brings Me joy.
Your treasure wasn't thrown away,
chafed against the others' mold,
but stored up safe until the day
refined by fire, it comes out gold.
Beyond permission, far from "ought";
and "should" and "can't," where ";I don't care";
is never heard.� My child, I bought
you long ago, bought every hair.
Beyond your weakened, striving race--
beyond your failure, hopeless tears--
sufficient here My perfect grace.
My perfect love casts out your fear.
Beyond convention or mistake
I made a place beyond abandon.
United hearts will never break.
In this place loneliness is gone.
Just wait, My child, 'till every head
turns upward to My light, My Word
and all My righteous hear I said
My church shall overcome the world"
She weeps a torrent--yet she sings
and sees the place within her strife.
Her tears are living water, springs
that well up to eternal life.
--May 2001
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