Wednesday, September 10, 2014

the F word (Matthew 18:21-22)

of becoming a
97-pound weakling,
i regularly exercise my
at those who have done
wrong to me . . .
but you would release
my death grip
on pain's weights,
and give me
a Spirit-filled bouquet
of mercy's tender flowers
to hand out
as i walk home.

the line form of
all who can't wait
to wipe bitterness on my soul,
i hesitate to open my heart
to put out the welcome mat,
but you sweep off
the sidewalk
to make a way for them,
leading to the porch
where a pitcher of
cool refreshing leniency
has been poured for them

have patience, Lord,
have patience:
till i discover
is not a word listed
in the world's lexicon
of foolish notions,
but grace gifted
       and over
          and over

to me.

(c)  Thom M. Shuman

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