For Jesus, On His Birthday
I was 6 years in the desert
Self-exiled, by my own power.
All gold once found then became dirt
Heart-housed demons them they showered.
There, whencefrom buried to my neck
Came forth my savior with eyes kind
Not as knight, me to pull from wreck,
But sickle-celled black man, lame, blind.
Snow from his nose poured on my head-
“My poor child destroyed in his self,
Foolish to think that you are dead
Undying light offers his help.”
Forthwith I felt it, though unseen.
Augmented in strength, thence I lept
Towards a star, glorious sheen.
I stayed grounded, though my feet left
The sand, to be planted on top.
The wilted flower of my soul
Through immense, undeserved love
It will be prayed, and there it shall grow.
Water only will come when asked.
Even in drought, often the plant
Reaches for growth with its own grasp.
It then shrinks, without the rain, damned,
But then is reminded of that
Undying love which lies in wait
Though unworthy, He has not spat
But cried tears of joy, far from hate,
So that his precious flower may then grow
Only beseeching that it Him may know.