Untitled

~October 2008.  Still pertinent.
Nichole Sanderson

Caught up in cacophonies of conflict and quarreling
Ensnared in strongholds of pretension, insubordination,
the vogues of my generation
and conjoined;
I can’t cut the link
between
who was and who should be,
yet I am frozen in fields of indifference
an atrocious reticence in me
where
it’s too destitute to find in this heart of mine
even a drop of new wine.
I’m just too weak to hold the ink of the way that You think,
and the paper of my past has been used,
bruised,
clouding novel messages I’ve so often refused
in Your word; that note
clearly spelling out the antidote to my disease of dispassion.
My soul hears it,
sees it,
and in an inactive movement of spiritual lethargy
rejects it.

Hence the evidence of this internal offense:
Whenever a scene

plays

out

then,
Suddenly I am pissed in the midst
of trial and tribulation
that in comparison
really are none
to Yours.

So I’m finding more and more that I
hate
this first-person singular pronoun: I.
Thinking You must be watching me wondering my way down
in awe of how I break holy law so readily,
easily,
unwittingly joining the enemy in coup d’etat
until your Holy Spirit is raw
with grief.
Apparent disbelief
on my part.
Hard-pressed to find a leaf;
all too brief to cover all of my names:

Instigator
Hater
Liar
Fornicator
Idolater
Murderer
Blasphemer
Thief

But, in spite of the identities I see in me I still
silently,
stubbornly
sing my symphony of blasé.
Bourgeoises
Commonplace
Salt with no taste
Failure staring me in the face
Feel like a waste
of time and space
I
can’t
run this race anymore.
I’m tired.
Tired of trotting the treadmill belt that has been my life;
always moving, never going.
Out of breath and frustrated because I thought I had burnt this bridge to binary self,
but in retrospect and introspect
I can’t seem to part with our self
I can’t do this myself
Oh God I need your help.

I am at despair of my duality
I am at dread of the impossibility
of veritability
charitability
amiability
civility
humility
the ability
to live in purity
and all else deemed lovely.

I fall at Your feet defeated
Death of my apathy completed,
And I am at end
I am at
I can’t
I can’t.

I can think of nothing more than I want to go home.
Home, where I will never have to drive another nail again
Where I will forget where I have been,
forget my sin.

Oh, glorious day that has yet come
I beg you, come.
Strip me of dawn
for with it what will become of me but to stand at the ready,
spear drawn
just as the soldier whose final thrust ensured You were indeed gone?

To think that Your affliction endured
was my infliction
It just doesn’t seem enough to say “sorry,”
but I am sorry.
Hear a desperate plea seeking the Judge’s mercy
and quickly
take my unlovely
my unholy
wholly from me.

Though I’ve confessed
there’s still this protest in my chest that contests the idea that any offense is as far from me
as east is west,
leaving storehouses of hope for change depleted
repeatedly
by each unsuspecting indulgence which drew from my flesh’s lips
Cohen’s cold, broken, perverse
“Hallelujah”
whose guilt never ends with the act
but remains intact
as mocking melodies of memories
like film,
reel in my mind
Like a film,
cover my eyes,
reminding me, blinding me
with each and every
ought
and ought not
to have thought,
said,
done.

Hear a request addressed to the Giver of Rest
and speedily
shake my shame
my chagrin
surely from me, too
So when the familiar voice of dissuasion attempts to deny the pardon ratified on this occasion,
in response I can choose to say
little devil, go away
God has my ear today.
He has taken me thus far,
to this glory somehow.
He will take me to the next some way,
and to yet another someday.

In the meantime I’ll keep writing my rhymes
to help break these confining patterns
of passive thought
and action
to fully revive my passion for You,
Yeshua
in whom is all my belief
and heart.
Hard-pressed to find relief apart from the assurance of Your names:

Elohim
Immanuel
El Shaddai
Adonai
Lord on High
Resurrection and the Life
Cornerstone
whose blood atoned
Enthroned Carpenter
Teacher
Master
Mediator
Anchor
Author
Finisher
Father
Servant

Savior

of the human race.
And when I come face to face
to the Word that could never be erased,
I realize that none of my labels are able
to exhaust the infinitely exponential equation that is Your grace
declared in the place of Romans eight
that despite my deprived state
I am set free, eternally;
because of the guarantee purchased on Calvary’s tree
it’s Christ who now lives in me,
and that
is the Something inside
that bids my will and my life –
go
to the gallows
with every sunrise,
and even if I fall a thousand times tomorrow
I
will
crawl again
stand again
walk again
run again
each step taken without shame,
without blame
’cause I’m redeemed

in Jesus’ name

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This entry was posted in Christian Walk, Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Untitled

  1. anonymous says:

    Would you ever be interested in writing on a contract basis? Being paid to write scripts, dramas, etc. I know a lot of people in the professional realm who want talents like yours.

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