By Jonathon Penny
I am, but not obsequious: no star-eyed worshipper of will. Defender-of-the-faith at cost, I am a bleeder-at-the-gills.
This Gospel hits me where I breathe: It roils the very blood of me; seasons the very meat and meal and sets the organs ill at ease.
I am, but not levitical, no cutter of the hair to cut, no saline soul mechanical. I am a why-er of the what.
This Covenant grips me by the groan: It fells and flings me to the soil as I were seed so to be thrown; as I were tiller, tree, and toil.
I am a doubter in the dark, a wrestler with angelic limbs. I brook no counterfeiting luck, but look for heralds of high Him.
This Ordinance wrings me by the nape. This Cherub bars me from the tree. This Way bow-bends me to the strait. This Lord makes mock and mince of me.
I am, though skeptical of bent, a wearer of the solemn gown– no rustic git obedient, no frail finch by breezes blown.
This Image flicks and flutters yet: at once aggrieves and brings relief; it faithful fuddles, frowns, and frets; it holy helps my unbelief.
I am a grasper after Grace. I am a doer of the word. I am a yearner after peace. I am a seeker of the Lord.
This Monarch veils himself in love. This Sovereign slips the throng and throne. This Master drudges in the grove and lordly lives among his own.