The Recipient

You, always, are the One who gives.

I am the parched country,

The empty cup,

The sunless land.

I am the bird that cannot hatch

till You descend to set me free.

I am stone crying out to be flesh,

A song without music

And words that drift away.

I am the core without the apple,

And the seeds are sterile:

The wingless bird, the windless flute,

Silently out of tune.

I am the puddle

That spreads without direction,

The puzzle without form.

But I am Yours:

A flame lit from Your fire,

And the song of Your singing,

Sparrow becoming eagle,

Bud become flower,

The dry stick bearing fruit.

The secret spring

Of Your uncapped joy runs through me,

Bubbling, bubbling ..

Teaching me, while still earthbound,

The laughter of the stars.