June 18, 2001
There are those days we’re on the edge
Barely clinging to the ledge
With blood and sweat and painful wounds
With tears of anguish, tired, consumed.
There are those days of summer green
Of golden light and silver stream
Walking in the cool of day
Absorbing beauty, lithe and gay.
Yet on the days near Eden’s gate
We all too soon do demonstrate
Forgotten purpose of the rest
Accepting this must be the best.
But the scars the journey scribed before
Still linger in the flesh, what’s more,
The arrows lodged below the skin
Do scar our soul and burn within.
Yet pure the silver water flows
Where the patient surgeon waits for those
Ready to trust his steady hand
To cut out the stone beneath the brand
And cleanse in water feet and head
And all between the stains of red
Then to anoint with holy oil
And feed on manna that won’t spoil.
As our old clothes are cast away
We’re newly dressed in the King’s array
Finally in armor, with shield and sword
Complete by final, eternal word
Able to alter the very past
Where, on the ledge, the wounds were cast
And divide asunder flesh and soul
Forgetting the false and making whole.
So now the ledge where we were small
Has become a place of triumph’s call
To praise the awesome mercies wild
That use the wound to heal the child.
Listen to the wind; Fear not!
It does no good to scratch the spot.
Child, come down to the water living
And surrender all to the healer’s giving.
Point of Rest
Copyright ©2001, Michael Todd Boyum. All rights reserved.