Coming Toward

If I could touch the hem of his garment
If I could feel myself healed
And not just imagine that I'm enlightened

I'm a barren vineyard
A murderer of hope
And the blood is still on my hands

If I could fall and not break
If he heard me when I called
If he would come when I cried

I'm an unfaithful whore
A broken window
Still lying in pieces on the floor

But if I could just touch the hem
If I could know myself forgiven
If I could look into his eyes

Then...

Joy of My Salvation

Write me a song, you said
A new one, with original inspiration.
I gave you a sonnet
That sang of my broken heart.

But I was unsatisfied.
I strove for remarkable
Yet I gave you uninspired half-truths.

So I wrote you a song
One never heard before
Yet one that had been sung for centuries.

It sang of my salvation;
Of joy unimaginable.

It sang of inspiration
From every corner of the earth.

It sang of Holy fire;
Of sacrifices and miracles.

It sang of death;
And of resurrection.

Remarkable, you said.

Shades of Grey

What is the haze in the distance?
The cloud in reality?
It is impossible to define
Or to conclude
But I'm drawing lines anyway

Weird shapes are forming
Stars of David and Nazi spiders
Contradicting and finding no common ground

What is honesty?
Or is it all shades of grey?
Is choosing to live in the mist
Denying myself
Or denying truth?

Lines in the sand
Writing in the dirt
I don't know what it says
Or what it means