God answers prayer.
He uses the answer itself,
When it comes, to
Comb my heart and tease out the snarls.
His answer and my repentance –
One brings the other as sure as a
Baby’s head at my shoulder
Invites a storm of kisses.
The enemy of my soul feeds on my heart-snarls
Rasping in my ear that all I have done before
His accusations are exact, a perfect recitation
Of my rankest hidden moments.
But he is so very limited in his conclusions.
He takes the pieces, but
Fails utterly at the point of ‘Therefore, . . .’
And isn’t that the magic of the gospel,
That the enemy is right,
But I’m still not condemned.
The Lover, the Answerer, breaks in and speaks
Even as He answers my prayer,
He fills all I did before with
Himself. And so His
Good answer, the fruit I bear, is whole and
His answer and my life are
The same thing.
April on Woodland Street