The Threshold of Grace
We pull up to the table with our heavy, soiled clothes,
Still carrying the friction of the paths our ego chose.
The malice and the whispers, the masks we try to wear,
We strip them off like rags at the doorway of His care.
And like a crying infant in the quiet of the night,
We reach out for the nourishment that sets our vision right.
Not tethered to humanity, nor fed on the algorithms trash,
But drinking deep the living Word that survives the lightning flash.
It’s milk to make us gentle, it’s meat to make us strong,
It turns our bitter bickering into a quiet song.
We pull the anchor from the world, its panic and its pride,
To measure life by love that’s high and deep and long and wide.
For happiness is not a prize we chase across the floor;
It catches up to us from behind as we enter through His door.
He shows the path of life to us, where our daily worries fade,
Restored inside the presence of the One by whom we’re made.
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