Not a poem. Just some words written down in broken line.
Here I sit, my cursor blinking
Telling me to type a line or two.
But nothing comes; I feel dry,
Dry in heart and soul.
This is Christmas. I should feel joy:
At least that’s what all the songs say.
It’s the hap, happiest season of all.
Not that I’m depressed, I just don’t feel glad.
Physician heal thyself, I hear myself say to me.
My own sermon on peace tells me my focus is off
And to this I must agree.
My focus is off, but what is it on?
If I knew that I might be able to fix the problem –
But probably not, I’m too broken.
Even preachers have dry spells,
Dry valleys with dry bones.
We walk the line and hoe the row
Shouldering the burdens of the flock.
Suddenly along comes one, who
After hours of painful craft by we,
Manages to knock the wind clean out of our sails
And we leave deflated, defeated and despairing.
I’ve heard tell that even greats like C.H. Spurgeon
Suffered terrible bouts of blackest depression.
This gives me great comfort and hope
For in this Dark Night of the Soul
I drag myself from point to place
From soul to face
And wish upon no one the emptiness that I feel.
And so this is Christmas.
My family is gathered here.
My children are sleeping.
The stockings are stuffed,
The presents are placed.
I read again incarnation’s story
And pray for more of God’s Amazing Grace.
I know no human words
In any language I speak
To tell God almighty how broken I feel.
Yes I have lost my focus,
I’ve gotten off course,
I lost the plot…
So with groanings beyond
Any human agenda
I release myself to the Spirit
Who takes up my prayer.
Restore me, O God.
Pick me up, carry me through.
Give me direction
Make me sing praises
To you my Great King
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but know I’m found
But sometimes I still cannot see.