You tend to break things we give You.
You tend to tear down block-built, self-gilt towers
Brick by brick.
With the thickest curtains I own,
You wouldn’t leave me alone,
The thing I am inside from out,
So I wouldn’t, ever, be known.
Walls. Boundaries. Strongholds. Forts.
Call them what you will,
Psychologize them and still
To hold my willful pride
To life that’s lived inside.
It’s easier just to hide.
You tend to break me.
You have and You will,
Yet there’s no one I trust more.
March around us still,
Seventy times seven times
Around these tiny tilting stacks, for
You are Destroyer.
Breaking bread and cracking bone
Shaking graves and rattling stone.
Broken Children, fractured Stars,
Hold your breath:
He’s building Cities in these scars.
“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to break down, and a time to build up…”
Ecclesiastes 3:1, 3b
(Liturgical poetry during Lent is inspired by the Ecclesiastes 3:1-8. Photo by Linnea Wheeler.)