First Good

Oh death, I will be thy plagues; O grave, I will be thy destruction

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The light has shone

over every day I was alive,

and has followed me to death,

holding me up like the crush of friends

—amazing grace—

after a game or race, so close

to each other we trade in breath

and sweat and the giddy whirl

of success. We made it. I swim through

—how great thou art—

the smoothest cosmos, backstroking

my way to gilded steps and fiery

stones—the gates of the very sun.

The weight of Earth and all my many

—blessed assurance—

stones, both thrown and caught

by the bruise of my body, settle

to the bottom of this sweet, black

ocean. Sprint the last hundred yards.

—it is well—

The light will only grow

like mustard seed, soaring

to heights that brush the limits

of outer space, a holy tree of life.

—great is thy faithfulness—

The rich thrush of love

breaks over me in waves. This

is a love without restraint, without doors

or windows or stone blocks setting aside

—be thou my vision—

a plot in the sprawling city of gods.

This love devours me, yet gives me

so much more—more time,

infinite time. Join me in the sandbox.

—to God be the glory—

The blazing light is more than halo

or polished rush of a bodiless spirit.

He is the ideal father, arms open

wider than flood gates, letting

—how firm a foundation—

the cool waters sift through

my clothes and fill my eager

lungs and open hands—drink it

up, gulp until you are full, dig for

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—how great you are—

the dregs. You will never reach them.

His cup is overflowing, and the outer

reaches of space have become an ocean,

bucking and kicking and running

—come thou fount—

like horses over and through

my battered being. I have always felt

a little alone, even when others confidently

chattered and worked around and over me

—a mighty fortress is our God—

like an army of ants.

But here I feel the unfamiliar ache,

of belonging. That canvas in the corner

belonged to me. I painted that nebula,

—just as I am—

measured the foundations

of that star cluster, designed

the softest leaves that frolic on Earth trees

before tumbling back to death. I shiver

—it is well with my soul—

with goodness that threatens

to dance through the tangles of clouds

and galaxies. He watches over

them all, hands stained from kneeling

—in the garden—

in the dirt, skin chapped and leathered

from working in the sun, eyes the deepest

pools of silk I have ever seen. At his side,

a woman blazing with beauty that burns

—a mother there—

my skin, and kindness that unlocks

the tallest walls in me. My mother’s

mother. A seer who painted the sunsets

I gawked at while a simple child nestled in

—the sweet by and by—

the slowly rocking chair of Earth

and her sisters. Together they hold

the simple title of God, a word

that does no justice, holds no weight

—what a friend we have—

to the guardian couple of eternity.

Father seems more fitting, Mother

seems more true. And the way they stretch

towards me, arms and hands hungry

—depth of mercy—

to hold me once more, even as dirty

as I am, a child who tumbled

through a forest of pricks and

needles, crawled under fences and caught

—walk in the light—

on stones, who scratched their hands

and rubbed their knees raw, aching

to stand instead of crawl… I am

encircled, enshrined, burned away

—be thou my vision—

with the commanding scrawl

of divinity. A son burrowed

in his mother’s arms. A daughter

peering over her father’s shoulder,

—the great physician—

little hands clinging to his shirt.

She invites me to her planets

and instruments, measures the weight

of ocean air and butterfly wings.

—we are going down to the valley—

He walks me through his gardens,

lengthening the stalks, strengthening

the roots with a practiced eye

and practiced faith. We are all beings

—glorious things of thee are spoken—

of something brighter than mere

light, exploring the self through creation.

And it corners and captures the loose pieces

of me, pieces I gave and pieces I stole,

—wholly thine—

and pieces that burned away

like summer mornings giving in

to the yoke of sugary, caffeine-free, diet sin.

It all burns to nothing here, all amounts to

—whispering hope—

everything. I am the queen,

ruling with the might and force

of love fervor. I am the king,

the luminary, wielding the weight

—the king of love—

of the worlds with little more

than a word of kindness—it is good.

The love of Father and Mother enkindles,

flickers and ignites, brands me with Godly

—rock of ages—

rule that stoops below the crawling

caterpillar and ensnares the singing

sparrow. God is so much more than mere flash

and fire, light and sun. God is good,

—o perfect love—

and all,

and love.