Am I pure?
The question is laughable.
I know I’m not.
I know the thoughts.
I know the inner walls of my heart:
Caked sins of the past,
Dark slime of the present,
And the ominous shadow of tomorrow.
Look inside me, O God.
Why would you put in front of me
An ideal I will never reach?
Maybe the mindset is wider and longer.
Or maybe You mean to drive me
By the sheer weight of my impurity
Into your arms.
May be what I long for,
And what I need,
But it is not what I have,
And the weight of a day
(More often than not)
Outweighs the weight of glory even when it’s a good one.
Is this wrong of me to say?
It’s the truth.
So I come crawling back to a Love I know
The arms of the One who forgives,
And as the dark falls round my empty heart
I rest in Your blood-soaked Purity,
Tested, tried, near.
And I am made clean.
You lift my stain from me
As if it were but a garment,
And not my nature.
And in these fractured streetlights
Painted on these broken walls
Of this small place,
I see You.
This can’t be just me.
My whole life will be
The asking and answering of the question: why?
And the collapse of a broken soul
“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”
(Liturgical poetry for the Sundays between Epiphany and Ash Wednesday is inspired by the Beatitudes, Matthew 5:3-12. Photo by Linnea Wheeler.)