I don’t write for myself
I don’t often write poetry
Words are use to express emotions
But what happens when the words don’t come?
He sends a message,
He has the words we need to hear,
If only we’d listen.
When I listen, I hear His voice,
but it doesn’t come as a voice,
I hear Him in the music,
I see Him in the beauty,
I find Him in the dark,
and there is where He knows me.
He doesn’t care that I’ve failed,
that I’ve sinned.
I went looking for Him.
I dropped everything not of Him in this life to seek His face.
He is joyous,
as am I.
And there are the words,
In the joy.
In the comfort of His arms.
In the silence of His presence.
He sends His Holy Spirit
to fan the flames inside my heart,
to ignite a passion for Him.
And I write.
He writes with my hand.
His gift to me.