Always the outsider God,
The one we have no room for.
Our plans are full, our diaries marked
With heavy expectations, (ours and theirs).
The scheduled life denies
The grindstone grinds us down.
What does it take to move us from the hellish bent
Of mortal fullness?
Where are hands outstretched
In empty supplication?
Our least-ness is to hurtle down to beast-ness.
Your sword-sharp glory slicing through our days,
Shearing away the dross of mindlessness,
Cutting a path to worship once again;
Making a way back home.
Let us make room for you;
Relinquishing the paltry to make room for grace,
Seeing you where we’d rather turn our backs,
Turning again, again,
Returning to the place we should have been,
To kneel in wonder on the stable floor.
And see god’s glory there, amidst the straw.