Lord,
this hammer is heavier
than I remember –
its weight
of rust and oak,
of time and mending,
restless in my grip.
Yet these calluses
were once blisters,
proof not of futile pleas, but of longings
that remember the grain – the slow but steady rhythm of work that always
takes longer than I expect.
You began a good work,
And you will see me through.
Lord,
is this growing pile
of bent nails
at my feet
a monument
to my failure,
my proneness
to hurried healing?
Is it wrong to want relief?
You began a good work,
And you will see me through.
Lord,
turn on the lights
in hallways forgotten –
ones adorned with stories
in crooked frames,
eyes peering through dust.
Set my weary feet
in the grooves
of these worn
but sturdy floors –
ones that will
always bear
the joy and weight
of the Spirit.
You began a good work,
And you will see me through.
Lord,
you know much
of living repair –
of place and time,
of limitation.
You sit unhurried,
marveling
at the courage
of unkempt spaces,
where grace is uncluttered.
You are putting
everything
in its right place.
You began a good work,
And you will see me through.
