My words lay bare before you –

Void of power, vain attempts at speaking true.

My description? Pale comparison,

Blunted brushstrokes of a kingdom far from view.

My poetry fails at pleasure –

Futile grasping, drought in barren, thirsty land.

My final offering, poor:

Creation blighted by a lowly sinner’s hand.

Still moved, you move within me,

Speak creation to this creature’s ear.

I hear you clear – but dimly –

Train the instrument; Help me – Lord, be near.

If I am sub-creator,

Let your image be the one they see,

If I be molder, maker,

Let your artistry guide every word in me.

Calm the voice of deprecation,

Hush the omnipresent voice of fear,

Give me only holy meditation,

Living Word, meet me here.

Guard my heart from boastful erring,

From false diffidence exchanged for pride

In its void, place faith unwav’ring;

Living Word – in me, reside.

As I submit my craft to others,

My fragile words – these lumps of clay –

I gladly lay my name down

Taking up yours, in the Way.

May it be an act of worship,

A small rebellion against sin and death –

A spark of divine image-bearing,

God within me – life and breath.

Let praise fly upward,

from my heart, my pen – my depth –

Echoes of Creator

Purest pleasure, deep desire most deeply met.