by Gideon Burton
I know He uses whispers, quiet signs
that give both space and time to take it in,
to weigh the word, or let its weight begin
to ballast me, to tether me with lines
of patience woven through His odd designs.
I've known that voice, a breathing on the skin,
a steadiness when other forces spin,
His prints of peace by which my world aligns.
But there are forces in His throaty calls,
however placid surfaces appear;
deep wells of thunder underneath the calm,
and I am riveted by molten spears,
and worlds unweave, and every heartbeat stalls
until my face feels scars within His palms.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License. Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - the trial
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