Make Me Thy Fuel
Amy Carmichael wrote this. What a legend.
From prayer that asks that I may be
Sheltered from winds that beat on Thee
From fearing when I should aspire,
From faltering when i should climb higher.
From silken self, O Captain, free
Thy soldier who would follow Thee.
From subtle love of softening things,
From easy choices, weakenings,
Not thus are spirits fortified,
Not this way went the crucified.
From all that dims Thy Calvary,
O Lamb of God, deliver me.
Give me the love that leads the way,
The faith that nothing can dismay,
The hope no disappointments tire,
The passion that will burn like fire.
Let me not sink to be a clod:
Make me Thy fuel, Flame of God.
Intermission
A reflection after a busy shift at work.
I had forgotten I was on stage. The lights had obscured all but this brightly lit enclosure, forces pushing and pulling me into action, the present drama all there was.
Intermission.
I remember. Improv over now, I walk to a chair in the wings, memories of the outside life floating to the surface; lumpen things chained to corks, breaking the surface of the calming water.
Another.
Who is out there? My eyes have yet to adjust. I remember a conversation, a pain, a feeling. On the stage when that’s all there seemed to be, these ‘wings’ abandoned. It means more to me now than it did then. There was purpose.
Theme. Story.
I feel the presence from beyond the lights, I know the Author is watching. He has called this intermission, I remember that now; I am under his care. About this story, he cares deeply, I remember that too.
I kneel before him, the character he has created for the story, but more, now a friend of the great Author. He has allowed me to know that there is more than the story, shadow is given substance. What kind of writer could do such a thing? Here now: in the puzzlement of the character who has assumed being held up by his own conscious activity. A stab of defiant pride.
But no.
I bow, enjoying the enjoyment I feel as I let him be Author now. That is the answer. A strange connection, between author and character. Another thought breaks surface. What if he has written himself into the story? I remember.
He is still writing.
What if I forget?
I know I will, soon the heat and the brightness, and the waters once again disturbed, for the story still requires me. He will uphold me. He will not forget, and he will remind me. He will call intermission, once again he will lead me, and I will remember.
Imperfections
A poem I wrote in November 2008 in Otley while meditating on Song of Songs
I am so aware of the imperfections of my love,
The weaknesses of my desire,
The frailties of my yearnings,
I know you delight in the utterances of my heart,
Yet they are wavering and inconsistent,
And my frustration grows.
Yet my relief comes at a glorious revelation,
That this is about your love not mine,
Your love, my Lord, has not a hint of lacking,
But is eternal, overtaking, never to be revoked.
Your love, my King, has captured me,
I cannot resist, I cannot escape your gaze.
So enduring is your love that it cost you everything,
And as you paid that ransom, your heart was burning for me,
Even though I was far from you, and rejected you,
You knew that your love would not fail,
You knew you would have me,
And, my Lord, you were right, for I am yours always.
You have romanced me with wine,
You have called me your own,
I am no longer mine,
So Jesus, please take me home.
