I. The Loom Groans, the World is Woven
The loom clatters, iron-toothed,
spitting out ages like wet wool.
God’s fingers- calloused, relentless
press the weft through bone-deep warp.
Galaxies unspool like tendon,
comets gnash their argentine teeth,
rivers gut the hills in hunger,
hurricanes turn in tight-lipped grief.
We were braided too, weft and wick,
veins knotted, breath spun tight
not one muscle flinched unbidden,
not one bone cracked by chance.
II. The pith Burns – Whose Hand Set the blaze?
Yet hands – our hands
flinch, grasp, strangle, steal.
Mouths form knives,
spitting acid, hissing blame.
A king smears blood on the law’s white hem.
A mother sobs into an empty crib.
A beggar folds himself into a grave.
And does the Weaver nod?
The righteous are swallowed,
the wicked fatten, and still we crawl,
our knuckles bloodied from doors He bolted,
our teeth chipped on prayers unanswered.
Are we puppets on strings floating on the borrowed life?
If our will is just smoke in a mason jar,
why does guilt chisel its name in our bowels?
Why do our hearts still howl in shame?
III. The Veins of the World Stretch and Snap
A wheel spins forward and backward at once.
A road forks, then folds back in Genesis.
My hands move, my feet stumble,
and all the while, His hand is on my back.
I spit- Choose!
And heaven does not blink.
I scream…Which is it? Fate or freedom?
And thunder only claps in laughter.
The mind splits like bamboo splinters,
snapping beneath the freight of knowing- never knowing.
Is the arsonist guilty? Or the match?
Is the the current to blame for drowning the child,
or the gravity that called it down?
Tell me, tell me
who is the traitor in the expanse?
Then my hand covers my mouth.
No answer comes; the wind blows.
No key turns, but the door is open.
No thread unknots, but the whole cloth shines.
Ocean in my eyes
Blinking burns… vision sharpens
A glass dimly lit, a mist in the sun
Windows streaked with memory
Scents and senses rise, weightless
Salt dissolves,
seeping into flesh,
clothing the bones in knowing.
I see now:
the loom spins, but so do I.
The hand writes, but so do mine.
The blaze burns, the storm devours,
and still
still my knees buckle in worship.
He is high, and I am low.
He is all, and I am nothing,
and somehow-
somehow…
I am something.
I lift my voice in fractured psalm,
A war-torn hallelujah,
not to understand,
but to adore.
Chalices pour out
Maranatha.
Leave a Reply