Knees bent, cursing illness that will not budge,
Lean on haunting songs as we pray for backs,
Easy tears as makeup starts to smudge.
Men fall to the floor. Like trees cut above roots,
But some limped on, still lame, still blind;
Worn with life; searching mustard plant shoots,
Of hope and peace and not being left behind.
Ministry, ministry an ecstasy of tumbling,
Catching clumsy fallers only just in time;
But I was crying inside and stumbling,
And struggling as a fish on a line . . .
Dragged through darkness, searching for light,
Under a sea of culture, I was drowning.
Gasping the atmosphere, losing all my fight,
Only smiles are welcomed here, not frowning.
Smothered by the noise of that place,
The still, quiet voice hidden in the din,
And a formula sold and found for grace,
A cure for all sickness and for sin;
I would hear and believe it, if I only could,
And sing with my corrupted lungs,
Obscene within, bitter as I stood.
While they babble in nonsense tongues,
I would rather God used my weaknesses, if pressed,
Than believe some unreachable, desperate glory,
The old lie; always believe you’ll be blessed
The charismatic story.