The season that my heart is in, or is it a condition

a sickness that resides somewhere within the soul

a chasm that is wider than I'd ever know

a desperature creature;

only wanting to nurse its wounds

only ever watching for out for itself.

No, I'll sing of something better.


The wind that scatters off the dust,

from this old and sleeping body.


The wind that breathes new life

and points me to the only hope there ever was.

I'm singing of a wondrous, real God

who never fails to take me in from the...




There's something in this mystery.

The brave can bare the winter,

and we were made to want bravery.


For there is a season of the heart

when blessed rain falls on all

and the sun shines on all with warmth and beauty;

but then there is a time when sorrow comes

and scorches us to make us whither

to make us bleed

to make us thirst

'ere winter comes,

we face a bleak horizon.


And through it all, this mystery.


Of God's faithfulness and goodness

of providence evident in this bloodstained and weary world.


The shadows always seem to fall on those with potential.

And there's a whispering in our ears:

that love is lust, and life is gain -

but to truly love, we must face pain.




Author's Notes/Comments: 

Years ago, I would not even be able to concieve that God looks out for me in this way.

I do not fear anything, when my heart rests with Him.

I love God above all things.

He is worth the knowing.

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ramonathompsont's picture

Deeply moved by this. Thank

Deeply moved by this. Thank you.