Friday, June 17, 2011


Holy, holy, holy God,
Be glorified in these hands,
In this self-serving life
Trying to serve you;
I only scratch a dent
In paint that needs to come off,
Not even a fleck.
But I'm new to knowing what you see in
Little me, with my unwashed hair in a pony-tail all week,
With my smile and the lines that don't go away when it's gone,
With my love for ice cream, with my dandruff,
With the way I down-dressed my husband in front of his sister,
With my Gatling gun laugh that does delight you so,
With my pensive looks and love of a good comedian,
With my hands wiping, changing, dressing, bathing, buttoning, brushing, patting,
With my twisted vessel for loving (it never comes out straight,
But sometimes when I'm unaware
And my busy hands stay out of it,
The love that fills my heart makes its way
Where I meant it to go);
I'm new to drooping all my weight
Onto your arms,
My lamb-head against your chest
Where you carry me.
I revel in it,
Into myself, I suppose,
But in awe of you,
That you would bear me thus;
I always knew you could
But now I know you want to.
Now I see
It doesn't put you out
To do what you made me to need.