Looking at the Moon

Gazing at that haunting orb,
the landscape seems transformed...
nothing is the same as it was in a way,
yet there is a constant variable that remains...

I think I pushed past the blot that I thought was an exclamation mark;
and see a fresh vision of who You would have me be...
Lord...I am still me. I am truly depressed for a moment as I think on it.

...the hairs that threaten to break my back still
tickle and prick my flesh with their usual prods.
but I no longer see the blockade in front of heaven's gate...

Your rod and Your staff prop me up agains the walls
....that used to move as if motivated by spite.
The outline is still there in form, but fresh wind blows in
...and moves me towards new pastures.

The magnet is weaker...
...and that pull towards the shadows has strengthened my resolve
to not be pulled in towards the bottom of the abyss...

Is it acceptance? Grace asks the question of whether the
fishing pole still has its' hooks sharp enough to go foraging in the
sea of forgetfulness.

Faith says that grace is sufficient for me in ready response...

Hope blows a cool wind on my flushed countenance in an
expectant hum.

...Love embraces them all and carries me back to the foot of the cross...

I fall once again to my knees under the weight of guilt for what I did not knowingly cause...

My weeping summons the touch of the savior; and softens the ground of my soul to respond to His voice in sweet anticipation of fellowship.