You are

the God of the noisy gongs,

and you are the God

of the clanging cymbals,

 

of those who speak in the tongues of angels

and are impatient,

who prophesy

and are unkind,

 

who understand mysteries

and resent the success of the unworthy,

 

whose faith moves mountains,

and are rude and easily angered.

 

Such people are “nothing,” Paul says.

You are the God of those nothings.

* * *

 

You are God of the wildly generous

And yet self-seeking,

Who surrender their body to the flames

In ardent faith, but remember

every wrong done to them

and are delighted

when retribution overtakes their persecutors

And so gain nothing.  Alas!

 

You see their tragedy.  You are their God.

* * *

And when I speak and write eloquently

But am neither patient, nor kind

I still love you,

And oddly, you love me,

Noisy old clanging cymbal.

 

And when I prophesy, truly

And envy a friend’s success,

And when in a flash of insight,

I fathom mysteries,

 

And I gain knowledge,

through toil, or your spirit

And tell (okay, boast!)

Oddly, I still love you,

And you love me.

 

And when my simple faith has moved

Obstacles, and I subtly

Take all the credit for it,

Goodness, you still love me,

And, you know–I love you, Jesus.

 

When I give far more than I afford,

In a grand gesture I regret for years

But am easily angered

And remember ancient grievances,

And am delighted when my enemies reap

What they’ve sown–at last, at last,

And smile that there’s justice in the universe

 

Oh Lord, you see and you know,

You shake your head, and you love me.

And I love you.

* * *

I would like to learn to love

A dangerous prayer.  And now I

Want to flee from it far beyond the sea,

But will not.

 

Jesus, I believe in your love for me,

(Most of the time!)

No, truly, I do.

 

Let the river of that love

Flow through me to other people

 

Let me follow you

In the most excellent way!