Crawlspaces (in the wings of a wordless stanza)

If a birds-eye view keeps me from seeing the heart of the matter and misfortune is where I lay my sword, then how can I understand your heart in the matter, and how can I see past every diluted word.

And I am cursed to be caught up in the crawlspaces of friendship and everything I am meant to be, and there is hope at last in the arms of a savior who calls me his own.

I am utterly broken, ashamed, unknown. And I have made a home in the addictions I have fostered close to my home. I am caught up in the crawlspaces of death and decay and perpetual fear that breaks me into pieces.

I am caught up in the crawlspaces of idolatry and fear. And pain is where I make my bed. The horror that comes at the thought of the living and the dead, and the dizzy, sickly feeling I get in my head.

But Jesus, I pray, rescue me from the crawlspaces where I sit in selfish indignation, pursuing the will of One who is higher than I with my gaze fixed in mirrored glass.

And may all my wordlessness be caught up in You. May all the thoughts I think lead me directly to the places I dare not go for fear of changing everything about myself.

Jesus, consume me with the presence of Your Spirit. And let my heart be staid.


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