I lay down my life.
But what does that mean?
I don’t know. Or perhaps I do.
That I let go of all that I had hoped…again…
Which is all that He has promised,
At least my hope of receiving it in this world.
And in that, He says, there is hope
That it will surely come
When I am gone.
What a surprise?
And I feel it in my chest.
The promise that I haven’t long.
And so I baby this old frame. I treat it gently
With the hope that I can get it all down before I go.
Work, work, work.
Writing down the words
That are etched upon this flesh.
And I hear the sound ring out from the unseen place.
I hear the call of Him whom I serve.
“Work, work,” he says,
“Waste out what’s left of your life
And let me be the thing that you desire.”