God of the world of unknown mysteries…
God of the realm tucked deeply behind that horizon…
God of the land yet untread on this journey…
God of our home still seen,
We seem not to know you well.
We call you by familiar names,
names of dominance and triumph and victory,
but we know little of Your fighting Self.
We call you Creator, Potter, Molder,
but we can name little of Your fashioning way within the corridors of our beings.
We have called on Your name,
and the words have grown stale on our tongues.
Our lips used to quiver to approach You,
but we find You rather familiar,
And buried beneath our self-protective layers of isolation
we may name yet another.
We remember desire. We recall the days marked by its presence.
We find it is not pressing, it is not growing. No, it is small and weak, withered from long misuse and neglect.
It’s small and unimpressive. It’s languid and just a bit ugly…
But it’s Yours if you’ll have it.
Please have it. Please.
till our lips quake again…