From Desert Dust

I was pulled from desert dust
by perfect truth and purest love;
was yearning to live, yet already dead
clinging to opinions, yet sorely misled
covered in scores of clandestine scales
a sour crudeness oozing
from old hidden snares
and polished sins
and tallest tales;

was placed into a peculiar garden
where sheets of tears and heavy sighs
began to thaw the frozen ground on which I lay
where overhead a purer light exhaled its warmth
dispelling the night that kept me hid so well,
its rays gently wrapping my aching head
held by the One who had found me
who sat kissing my pallid face
who dried the crimson cleansing rain
that fell like pelting pebbles
against my softening skin;
who wrapped me
in His robe of grace
and spoke
while He bled
from scores of wounds
and deepest stripes
until I felt his nails
in mine own

Did I?

What worm is this?

And then I fell as one dead
into His all-consuming fire
burning ALL
but His beauty
bright as morning
yet deep within

Did I

What grace is this?

Petra O. Hefner



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