Poetry

The thing I love most about poetry, is that one can never devise the perfect poem. There are no measuring lines or formulas. There are no tests of law or truth. It is merely expression, and expression in itself, can never be wrong. Sure the meanings behind the expressions can indeed be false, evil, and cruel. But it is the ability to express ourselves, evil and good, which makes us human. This is a precious gift.

This is why David and Job could cry out in their anguish. God made us beings who feel, who communicate. He begins the conversation with us.

And even still we come before a God who not only allows expression but responds to it. Whether in judgment, mercy, love, or wrath, He responds. This is the incredible truth: He in fact invites us into conversation with Him. He is not far off as some may think, laughing at our pain. Oh no, He joined us in that pain and sang the psalms of suffering better than any man. He has invited us to join Him on that long calvary road, He bearing the true load. He only asks that we come for His sake and not for our own. That we come to receive, understanding we have nothing to give. That we come to be taken, from the finite and into the infinite.

We can only express because He is expression perfected. We compose because He composed us. He orchestrated the universe into being, and His touch is found even in the smallest most insignificant, instrument in the symphony. The wonder is not that we can express ourselves, but that the God of the universe impressed us with His expression.

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