theblackdostoyevsky

My Lord,

How beautiful you are. Though I’ve never beheld your face, our fellowship is as sweet as a smile. You were never to blame for my foolishness, all those clever secrets I stuffed into bags and tucked away in the dark corners of my heart, cloaked in ego. So long they sat untouched and stinking. But like a carpet stains repeatedly passed over, I stopped clocking ’em. After a while, I’d forgotten all about my subterfuge and deceived myself by negligence that my motives had always been pure. I hung perfumed praises before my nostrils, a sweet-smelling savour unto myself, until the rotting carcasses had decayed into dry bones. A sack full of brown elbows. The odor of death in repose.

Then, you knocked. I checked the ring camera and opened. Your eyes burned like suns. Love is suffering. You turned them around my corners and upon my rafters without a blink.

I broke my bow, in defense. You collapsed on your knees to repent.

“Forgive him, Father. He is convinced.”

Then, opening your eyes again, you incinerated everything in this tent. Here’s Achan’s lament.

Now, I’m a shell. A fleshy hollow with a little water on the face of my deep, like a well. Waiting to be filled up with yourself.

I covet your power to impale the pride of mankind. I’m Simon the Sorcerer, enraptured and emptying his pockets, spilling gold all over himself.

Lust, I can’t help. Lord. Sure, you’re my shepherd now, but I still want just a little more than everyone else.

It’ll be our little secret; obedience for stealth. Applause for allegiance. Your Spirit upgrading mine to be felt.

You need an ambassador? You knocked and I answered. Wasn’t I alone willing? If not, then who else?

Yeah, yeah, yeah, you want everyone saved, but please, not so saved as me. Let me be the first to eat from your tree. Life without cease, quenched thirst without drink, full belly, no meat, fill only me to the brink.

Look at me, hear my speech, Lord, ain’t salvation free? But if you bid all to come in, and that equally, who to you does that make me? Not unique.

I, too, wanna feel special, more than just first to assent, because after a while I’ll be the last on your list. Every angelic eruption as a new sinner repents, reminds me how long since you’ve been in my tent.

I’m not selfish, only worried I’ll be kept on the shelf. Succor my pride; pile my crowns higher than everyone else. I swear, I’ll wash all their feet. I’ll be everyone’s slave. I’ll plead for their souls from cradle to grave. I’ll be patient in trial. I’ll walk by faith every mile. Like you, I won’t threaten, when they profane and revile your name, but make my name, with your name, like your name, first. I’ll halal all these crowns on the earth like a curse.

But please, Jesus, please, don’t send me to the bottom.

Leading from beneath is where, I fear, I’ll be forgotten.