Made New

I've grown past the point of asking;
"Oh my God, how can this be,
That a sinner in the present,
You let live eternally?
A sorry man,
As me?"

I lift t'thee my woes of sorrow
For having been blind of you.
In place of falsity and death
You lay life, unblemished; true.
A narrow road
of few.

You took our tragic tree of death,
As the sword will beat to plow,
In it you craft the the tree of life.
Injustice; yet mercy. How?
Our devices
made bow.

"Isaiah 61" by Emily Smith

Ashes.
We all
Fall
Down.
Ashes are all I’ve got,
Nothing else to offer.
Beauty.
Beyond my grasp
Beyond my comprehension
Beyond
Me.
I break beauty
I make beauty mine
And by possessing it,
Kill it.
You are beauty
Whole.
Real.
And you look on my ashes,
The ruins of beauty,
All that is left,
And weep.
I break things. It’s what I do.
Ash consumes everything else,
Making everything into nothing.
I kneel in the dust,
Mourning, mourning.

Morning.
You’re here, bearing beauty
And love.
I am terrified
Terrified of my capabilities
My preference is to sit in
Brokenness,
Where there is nothing else left
To break.
But you wrap yourself around
Me.
I grasp hold of my ashes
Or are they holding onto me?
I long for beauty,
But I can’t have both
Beauty and ashes.
And then, you’ve taken them
My ashes are gone
And in their place, beauty
My mourning fades
Replaced by
Resounding
Reveling
Praise.

Morning.