Would a man starve when food is before him,
A dish steaming with morsels both tasty
And pure? Or thirst when his cup to the brim
Is filled? No, such a fool could never be!
Yet, if I reflect, such a fool is me.
God’s Word is manna—it sweetens the plate,
Heals like nectar from His life-giving tree;
It is a feast on which this soul could sate,
But I eat barely enough to placate
My groanings, drink little more than a sip—
Oh, God! You’re a mere note on my palate,
A moistening drop on my dry, cracked lip!
On Your sweet Word, Lord, I would gluttonize—
Make me gorge! Without food, the spirit dies.
A Broken Land
I’m a broken land, Lord, but I won’t turn
Over the reign of my kingdom to You.
I’ll keep believing that I can subdue
My foes, those rebellious instincts that churn
In secret; yet I know I’ll never learn
To grasp the scepter of humble virtue.
The most sensible choice I won’t pursue—
Abdicate my crown, ask You to govern
My lands. Your stewardship would bring them back.
So, before my enemies can succeed,
Conquer my state, come, and usurp Your throne.
All my divided alliances sack,
And make the rogue forces of my heart bleed—
Only through ruin can goodness be known.