“I am, I am, Your Own come Home”….a poem by Linda Willows

All that lands in child’s mortal heart…
like bird that lands soft, but soon to part..
In palm of our hands, a cup that thirsts-
yet cannot grasp tight, lest all love bursts.

So fragile is the love so desired,
in mortal disguise that it must be “acquired”.
Yet hearts that hold this bird in grasp,
live out the sting of it’s loss’s gasp.

For no worldly thing may fill this Cup,
we turn, our tears reach farther up.
In Godly calls come a chalice of the gold,
divined from that One’s Love’s Threshold.

Heart-worldly love finds fragile ashes;
bleeds the letting vein ’til glass crashes.
Only the soul may keep this Dove…
a Gift forever from our God above.

When we thirst to fill this cup
The Waters pour divine Love’s sup…
Eternity’s Grace of attending sweet lift
that our heart’s may rest in such merciful gift.

“Oh alone
must be sown…
seed home, Lord home.
Hand to open in Love’s joy now known.

Your own, I am
Lord, vein to Heart;
all that begins, is not born apart.
Sweet Love’s Child is the breaking sown.
I am, I am
Your Own come home.”

©2015 Linda Willows; republish 2016



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