My shadowed eyes inhale escaping light.
My stiff, cold hand contracts, afraid to knock,
with thoughts of never seeing the fire of right;
I, squashing orange flies, was counted wrong.
My ear presses to hear if all is lost
against the moss-green door called Abba’s Love.
It fakes no glimmers, this chipping wood of Love.
The old, sagged door engraved with care by light
does not deceive like flame-wings sold or lost.
No, this is candle warmth if I but knock.
A booming whisper charges me with wrong.
“You cannot change nor grow. You have no right!”
I snap my head to face the speaker right
between the eyes. Claws snatch my arms from Love.
I grasp the doorknob hard to flee from Wrong.
My nails scrape wood. “Don’t let me lose the light!”
I cry. The talons slowly loosen, lost.
And with a screech the beast itself is lost.
You heard my prayer. I stare at hands, my right
and left, the two in splinters cloaked-in Love
(or shards of it.) Perhaps this pain is light
for darkened eyes. To see the glow no wrong
could crush, nor my own stumbling pile of wrongs.
I squeeze my fists; proceed before time’s lost.
My hand raps, pounds on wood, a plea to light—
to make my hunched, lone figure stand aright
I whisper, “Teach me all Your words I love!”
and wait to wonder if You heard my knock.
My heart beats once; then twice again it knocks
against my questioning chest to ask what’s wrong.
My throat is dry, and so my tears and love.
My quenched, hot mind to search for law as lost,
but what is wrong should hide, not what is right?
Is my transparent shade too much for light?
Your hands prove wrong my questioning of true love,
My lostness stilled in Your embrace; You’re righting
my wrong. You knock and open me to light.