Authors

Late one evening,

Which is nine thirty in my world,

Covered in quilt, supported in pillow, book in hand,

I took a long, scenic walk with a favorite author.

This man is using English,

And yet he’s speaking another language.

Anyone can will a pencil to write these same words:

Tree, bird, song.

But to orchestrate the words as he does,

Bending, molding, placing with purpose and wit,

Just so.

It’s a beautiful gift,

One that I was very pleased to receive,

On that late evening,

In favorite old pajamas.



Early one morning,

Sun opening one eye from under soft folds of night,

A little library of journals and devotional books in my lap,

I sought out my God, my Love, in the pages of His Book.

Jesus, God with us, has a gift with words too.

He said, “Follow me,” and twelve left everything.

The word “Go” released a man to see.

“It is finished,” took every sin,

From everyone,

Everywhere.

We all have access to the same words,

Jesus’ grand vocabulary wasn’t the distinguishing factor.

But when He spoke, when He speaks,

His Spirit is given full sway,

Accomplishing heaven’s reality on earth.



Let my words,

Of mouth or pen,

Be words deliberate.

Nouns, verbs, adjectives,

Carefully selected from a divine thesaurus.

Messages crafted,

Before time began,

That the work of the One I serve,

May flow forth,

Through me.

Let these utterances, like a sword,

Protect and not wound.

A hammer to build up,

Rather than tear down.

Let my words be Yours, Holy God.

Let my words be Yours.





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