Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Sometimes, Strange Help
Oh, I could not touch the process
As you neared the Living Fire,
As He pained and purified you,
As He raised your standards higher.
Though I heard your cries of quandary,
And I saw your tears of shock;
It was clear you were His project.
(I refrained from soothing talk.)
There was only my prayer corner
Where I dared to let it out.
Where I got beneath your burden,
First with moaning, then with shout.
And His Spirit reassured me
This was how it had to be,
That you might receive your treasure
And a gracious victory.
It must all be of His working,
Measured out to challenged trust.
Marvelous, such metallurgy!
Making gold of baffled dust.
Dare I frustrate such a Craftsman,
As He works His glorious art?
As He gives the form and purpose?
As He re-creates the heart?
No, I could not, and I would not,
For I had my times alone.
When the arm of flesh was absent
And I had to storm His throne.
And the bounty from the battle
Seems my richest gain to date,
Which the Living Fire had purposed
In His mercy, as my fate.
Oh, I love you brother, love you,
And it hurts so much to stand
At the outskirts of your struggle
Clenching tight the helping hand.
But the Master sits beside you
As your bark braves wind and wave;
And the passage proves Him able
To the uttermost to save.