For the miracles;
On the edge of a knife
an eleven fifty-nine clock
And a promise about to ring
A promise of the call of a good father
To show up and sweep me off my feet
To tend my scratches and kiss my spent muscles as I collapse
Heavy and spent,
My mind stills before His grace
My heart yields to His white light
My spirit circles and lays to rest in His glow
Like a house dog cosying to her master
I am waiting His miracles
Looking for His fireworks that only He can do
Going to the promised land,
going to hold His hand and follow where He leads
I shall dance like David and worship-,
To pray to ignite to burn-,
To hope, to listen-,
To love.
The winter is gone and the springtime comes. I'm quickened to the meadow.
I wish only to be where He calls me
I know my small hand is in His firm grasp.
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