The Bridge

Between my soul and God there yawns a chasm stretching out so wide I cannot see the other side from where I stand against the dawn. How great the gulf of human pride, of degradation, sin and woe; yet, I the true depth do not know nor can I judge it where I hide among the trees, all covered o'er with self-made robes my mind contrives of dubious good deeds and lies, just withered fig leaves, nothing more. My soul cries out in agony, "can no one turn the dreadful tide?" And Christ, the one I have defied, stoops down to taste my misery. My heart is wrung in Sorrow's grip; an awful pounding fills the air, and, like a dog in mad despair with glassy eyes and foaming lip, I stare in holy terror now as upward, out of that dark deep, a cross takes form. From steep to steep, it spans the gulf to where I bow. There, in my night, I dimly see the Son of God slain, crucified: how can two arms stretch out so wide in love to bridge infinity? © 1987, Faye Lanham Gibson