Poetry Of The Spirit

The Thousand Year Breath

 

 

 

Cry For Redemption

 

Oh Lord, Oh God,

I cry for redemption.

I have erred against my own judgment:

I have known right from wrong,

and chosen wrong.

Every voice inside me rebels,

go not down that path!

Yet I go down that path.

Divided against myself,

I walk through the days,

doubting my own character.

How can I be so cloven in two?

Where is my strength, why is there always

a Delilah tempting my Samson?

I cry for redemption again and again, but it is only a cry,

one of billions, nothing of any great worth.

Am I blind, and you are offering yourself

in every nook and cranny of my being,

every wind that sweeps across the plain,

every flower that bends and spreads its pollen

to the distance of the meadow?

I have little to show for myself

but a lifetime of such prayers as these.

I see no strength in myself.

I have a great shame.

The siren song of comfort sways me more

than the long road and the long building

of a good and lasting house on this plain.

I will watch the flowers bending,

and spreading their pollen.

Now my body is aging, and I see that

in spite of my youthful optimism, I too

will soon enough pass from this earth.

I may only survive as a cry for redemption,

and this cry

is the pollen of the flower

that bends before the wind,

to the distance of the meadow.