This may look and read like a poem
but for me it is simply another piece
of evidence to be numbered and filed away
with poems of the past like treasured postcards
sent from my Beloved. Reread over the years
to bolster my faith when I find myself at sea,
alone in the dark, my hand seemingly slipped from
His.
Not the art of them nor their elucidations.
No, their very existence is my evidence,
the blessed assurance that my Lord
is with me, responding then, now and always.
This poetry is not mine. I haven’t it in me.
These poems are the patient, particular
answers and encouragement He has given me
through the years, leading me onward,
quenching my doubts, quelling my fears.
His prints are all over them – typed out onto a
blank screen
but written all the same in His generous flowing
hand.
O child of God, trade in your circumstantial evidence
for the conviction of real experience.
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