Life grinds us down to doubt, and doubt to dust;
We can see angels and yet fail to trust.
There is no accounting for the moments of God
Thrusting through the walls of our expectations
Tearing down our flimsy habitations
Exposing the small lies by which we live.
There is no preparing for the time of confrontation
Finding we have rebuilt our own foundation.
The desert wind blows hard through lonely places
We speak mere irritation.
There is no equivalent in imagination;
No theory that will give true preparation
The moment comes, our truth leaks from our heart
Revealing our deflation.
There is no cheating this examination
Faith whittled down, reveals its limitation,
The voice that spoke too soon is silenced now,
Until fulfilment brings its re-instation.
So must it be, for every revelation
Calling forth faith can show our alienation
From mercy’s sureness. Words of painful doubt
Are not mere aberration.
In the moment of the angels, let one truth be on my tongue,
“Your will be done.”