in the desert of loneliness, even within Your thick Presence in me,
in choking isolation or hunger, when the heaviness feels crushing,
in the fullness of encounter , when even the overflow from me feels tinged with living fire,
in the silent place when You are shrouded in darkness,
when I must take up my crown and find You,
even now while my flesh is leaden and thick,
sluggish steel mooring the heart who longs for flight,
though I thirst, I ache, I burn, I yearn, I hesitate,
though complex feminine emotions persist beyond permission to cloud my vision
though all can feel gained and lost within a moment,
I call forward into the Spirit of the One Who Loves Me
the Thunderous One who speaks
in a still, small voice
I send my voice out, in spite of the way I feel
my sound is whispered into my Father’s ear
No cry for help.
No foolish wish of relief.
No, these lips, these consecrated gates, will not utter a single sound against His declaration of Truth over me, in me.
I am His Divine One, Reborn.
Whatever be the testimony of my flesh,
whatever be the torment of the lie,
whatever be the pain of my becoming,
may these false witnesses be exposed against the fingerprints of Jesus in every inch of my spirit.
I call forward,
if only by whisper,
into the ears of the Daddy Who Has Turned To Me.
Even now, if I must cry a little,
I set my jaw against all sounds
Except my love song.
Except my full worship.
Except the prayer of our partnership.
Except my broken song of trust.
Oh, how I trust my Father.
I am burning against the Sword of Truth, as He shows His faithful, violent love to me.
I open my wavering, trembling throat to Him,
tinged with the sweet fragrance of total surrender.
May He look upon this heart,
the one that lays itself fully upon His cross, His unthinkable perfect way
and may He swallow the whole of me, once again.
May my heart, which always seems broken,
Be the sliced and torn testimony of His own body,
From which life pours.
Open, you consecrated gates,
Lips of His beloved daughter,
And make the sounds You were born for.
Issue forth the call of the redeemed.
Release the Lion’s shout.
I look not on my wound.
Oh, Adopted One, let not your vision be cast low,
but upon the Lamb Who Was Slain,
And become like Him.