I am, but not obsequious:
no star-eyed worshipper of will.
Defender-of-the-faith at cost,
I am a bleeder-at-the-gills.
This Gospel hits me where I breathe:
It roils the very blood of me;
seasons the very meat and meal
and sets the organs ill at ease.
I am, but not levitical,
no cutter of the hair to cut,
no saline soul mechanical.
I am a why-er of the what.
This Covenant grips me by the groan:
It fells and flings me to the soil
as I were seed so to be thrown;
as I were tiller, tree, and toil.
I am a doubter in the dark,
a wrestler with angelic limbs.
I brook no counterfeiting luck,
but look for heralds of high Him.
This Ordinance wrings me by the nape.
This Cherub bars me from the tree.
This Way bow-bends me to the strait.
This Lord makes mock and mince of me.
I am, though skeptical of bent,
a wearer of the solemn gown–
no rustic git obedient,
no frail finch by breezes blown.
This Image flicks and flutters yet:
at once aggrieves and brings relief;
it faithful fuddles, frowns, and frets;
it holy helps my unbelief.
I am a grasper after Grace.
I am a doer of the word.
I am a yearner after peace.
I am a seeker of the Lord.
This Monarch veils himself in love.
This Sovereign slips the throng and throne.
This Master drudges in the grove
and lordly lives among his own.
This piece was published in 2014 as part of the 3rd Annual Mormon Lit Blitz by the Mormon Lit Lab. Sign up for our newsletter for future updates.
Comments