I know the New Nation that we've been chasing
Isn't all for waste, and
I know You're here when I need You around.
But maybe I'd be stronger if I stayed longer,
Learning right from wrong, or
The other thousand things that I'm figuring out.
She loves the morning.
She loves every part of the day, but especially the morning.
I think it's in the artistic redemption—
The quiet call to lift eyelids & skylids,
The second chances, the third chances,
The fourth chances.
And of all the people who might petition God for another chance,
She has a case.
A case of trophies boasting of the ways she used to move,
Used to sing, used to.
A case of empty bottles & ziplock backs
Testifying to the ways she had been used.
A case of book after wisdom after book,
Bought to be borrowed—and we do.
Her name is J
For the joy that she gives,
For the jewel that she is,
For the Jazz that she lives.
She's bright in every sense of the word;
She's bright because of The Word,
And her Light is my Morning.
How humbling it is that a third of our lifetime is untouchable.
Are we so fragile that for every 16 hours of movement
We require 8 of stillness?
Is the world so heavy that by our dying day we cannot lift it?
Are we so in danger of thinking ourselves invincible
That we must be reintroduced to weakness on a nightly basis?
I think so.
I think often about this,
Especially as I watch her 24 hours trimmed further & further down
Until the ratio is flipped, leaving only one third for her use—
And a painful third.
Still, that third in all its discomfort brings a comfort—
Better yet, a Life—
Like nothing I've seen in all my waking hours.
From the heart of the storm,
From the confusion of the worn
A Revolution has been born,
One that will outlive every sunset
Until the day there is no sunset.
And everything is as the Son said.