The several strains daily overtaking me
Shame and exalt at once,
Because, in the end, my heart cannot help itself.
(That is not to say that it has no help.)
My God! how complex my tortuous wretchedness,
and how simple Your directed purposeful righteousness!
How will this fadge, my freedom in Christ?
The separate joys daily set before me
Fill and empty at once,
Because, at the start, my spirit does not know itself.
(That is not to say that it is not fully known.)
My God! how starved my tempestuous appetite,
and how replete Your serene contented compassion!
How will this feed, my portion in Christ?
The sturdy disciplines daily teaching me
Prune and cultivate at once,
Because, in process, my mind will not make itself.
(That is not to say that it has not been well made.)
My God! how foolish my worldly wisdom,
and how wise Your heavenly holy thought!
How will this figure, my understanding in Christ?
The quiet times at work are the ones that question, that produce. When I am busiest, it seems I talk more than say.