Posting a poem. From that college project I found. I was studying religious poetry, specifically urban religious poetry. Only at a liberal arts school, baby. I think this poem is in some form that I don't remember, it's kind of sad I can relate to it still, disclaimer, disclaimer. But I am further now in my healing, praise God.
Here it is:
For Whom the Lord Loves
"Do not reject the discipline of the Lord." -Prov. 3:11
"But they lie in wait for their own blood;
They ambush their own lives." -Prov. 1:18
I spat out the Lord's reproof, wholly
to find that he stretched out a hand
armed with warm blood, an absence.
How many times would I withhold
this life already given? He held ground
that had never been broken, for lives
that before had only beheld Him
thickly, for no real length of time.
To be able to stare--is that what
I have been wanting? Yes, of late
I have looked directly ahead. Yes,
the Lord loves to correct me,
His delight, one dug from the grave,
writhing. But I am kept from wisdom
by hands and feet clumped together
under one name, streets loud with shame
and my neck red as I about face
Him, covered in devices, my own
derision. Have I kept sound wisdom?
Am I lying in wait, my blood rushing?
7 hours ago