They are like trees along a riverbank bearing luscious fruit each season without fail.
Their leaves shall never wither, and all they do shall prosper.
What if the season is barren
rather than bearing?
How if the leaves have curled
and the river has curved
away—away from from this tree, empty?
“Empty? Why art thou empty?”
Asks the Spirit-wind,
rustling through parchèd leaves.
“Have you ceased to delight in
my Word—written, spoken, spilled down?
In the stillness after the query
hangs an echo from ancient days:
“Who told you you were naked?
Why are you afraid? Have you disobeyed,
eaten what I forbade?”
“Yes, Lord,” I whisper in shame.
“I have known good, but evil is now
natural to my broken frame.
I have not delighted in your Name,
to your Word I refused to bow.”
“Yet all these days
I have guarded your ways—
return to me, delight in me.
My arm is not too short to save,
remember this and offer praise.”
Like a long-waited rain to a dry tree
were his entreaties to me.
I took delight as I meditated,
both day and night, upon
his Word written, spoken, spilled down.
______
Photo by Patrick Hendry on Unsplash
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