The font and the brook
The stone is cold, the pews are still,
I sit within my own mind's chill.
But through the shadows, soft and low,
I hear the font—its steady flow.
It isn’t a voice or a thundering word,
But the sweetest song I’ve ever heard.
A bubbling brook in the summer heat,
Where the thirsty and the broken meet.
Like a bird that lands on a mossy stone,
I’m no longer failure, I’m no longer alone.
He isn’t shouting from a distant throne,
He’s the healing water, making me His own.
My plans were a map I drew in the dust,
But the water washes them back into trust.
I see her future through tears in my eyes,
But He sees her spirit, a beautiful prize.
Not a group home, but a place in His hand,
More secure than the best of the lives I had planned.
When words fail and only tears remain, Spirit steps in to speak for us.
In that quiet church, let the sound of the bubbling water hold the weight of those fears for you. Jesus, I hand it over to draw a plan for her and trusting the One who created the "brook."
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
