Psalm of Dust III — The Vocation

I write because I must.

When the Spirit moves, Dust cannot stay silent; language itself becomes breath made visible.

I write because I must.

I am compelled to do it — like a moth circling flame.

There is no reasoning with the path that unfolds

when You move within me.

There must be some avenue, some conduit

for the fluidity of Your windy breath, or else—

I might implode, like one of those black holes

that swallows a neighboring star,

only to be reborn in a bright explosion

of cosmic wordplay meant to dazzle and delight You.

Childish magic tricks. Staged plays.

A newborn star performing for her Maker.

All this would I do if words were never given me

to express my gratitude to You.

For Your love is a seal upon my brow,

and I have found Your mysteries answered

in the Firstborn of creation —

the Son who was, and is, and is to come, Yeshua.

When Love incarnated in purity so dense

it bled through pores when pressed,

in supreme sorrow at a separation so severe

that time itself took note in Gethsemane,

it left echoes through all ages —

reenactments recorded in Fox’s Book of Martyrs,

each verifying the authenticity of the witness.

Now I too, as a vessel and witness,

offer my own scattered ashes as testimony,

the talent You so graciously gave a child such as I.

All that was ever good came from You.

My writing, Lord — my joy in crafting these psalms —

I praise You that I might construct

a temple to Your Name with no location,

and raise a new song:

A song of thanksgiving to the Lamb,

a song of unity in the Spirit eternal,

a praise to the Ancient of Days

who reigns from everlasting to everlasting —

the tender Father and Gardener

who prunes that we might blossom in time,

the Potter who formed the clay before the vessel,

the Animating All-in-All,

the Substance preceding matter,

the Thought before thoughts,

the Beloved our souls long for,

our Rest, our Completion, our Perfection.

I could write even more titles, Beloved,

but these are enough.

They make even me bow lower

in the gravity of Your immanence.

I am replete in You —

and Your embrace, my Love,

is enough for me yet again.

As always, Yours,

Dust