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SHARPS AND FLATS
Your granite face towers over this place; shadows me in cycle. You speak hard words like gathered shards with no give or sway. Ancient of days. Roots deep from the beginning of time. I boast in my breadth. But truly I’m just a breath, fragile like this waving grass, when compared to your fixed spires reaching higher above the flats I roam. You are why I call this home. Seasons shift my view and I’m constantly changing my path and company too; tearing up the terrain. Always moving—wild. This freedom is wrought by your yes being yes, and your no, always no. This I know. It’s the rigidness of your rightness that keeps me near. I could outline your silhouette and set you in gold… forever. ‘Cause you hold still, doing your will as you said. The distance between me and you is both far and near. Walking for miles, it’s like I haven’t moved. You are still in the same position, singing over me a grand composition.
Zephaniah 3:17; Malachi 3:6; Psalm 90; Psalm 91:1