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.”
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