river girl poetry

poetry: creative worship

the beauty of the lord

i can’t think of a better partner,
better friend,
better lover.

every move you make is somehow other.

you’re the best listener -
and yet when you speak, it thunders.
you’re the best warrior -
and yet you love like no other.
you’re the best artist -
and the architect behind every color.

no one responds like you do.
solomon,
in all his wisdom and beauty,
pales next to you.

your very life a work of art,
on the tongues of scholars for ages.
your existence a divine experiment,
that could fill a million pages.

the one i want beside me,
in laughter and in war -
i’ll never stop describing
the beauty of the lord.

h.b.

i thought i’d get used to it

giddy like a first date
just waiting for you
every one of your glances
cuts me right through
i thought i’d get used to it -
this wild love of yours
but every time i do
there’s more and more and more
i can trace every touch
like footprints in the snow
i can’t see what’s ahead
but honey, let’s go

h.b.

people are prisms

people are prisms
& in the hue of their light
i discover new parts of myself
new parts of you
- new colors to see the world through
the stained glass of cathedrals,
just a shadow
of the true place
where heaven meets earth
- the sanctuary found in communion
paint me softly
with character
and color
and cuts divine
- i am made of everyone i’ve loved

h.b.

the in-between

i think i was made for the in between.
i was trained for transition my whole life, it seems.
consistency - a deep craving of mine
settling - a deeper fear.
i keep finding myself with long commutes,
arms wide, reaching out beyond my roots;
never satisfied, kinda content.
i don’t know what i’m doing and i won’t pretend.
i am: half checked boxes and notes in the margins,
living in the liminal, camping in the uncomfortable.
if my life is to be lived in secondary colors,
in constant motion, in running water,
teach me how to be:
the door keeper, the temple greeter.
the real estate agent, the middle school teacher.
help me to celebrate awkward growth,
to champion those walking back home;
let truth be a tattoo upon my lips,
let grace be my lens, my first reflex.
in the vulnerability of development,
let me carry your safety in my touch.
in the embarrassment of the process,
let me soothe with your medicine love.
unashamed, unafraid,
unfinished, untamed.
maybe you made me for the in between.
be my truth in transition.
be my consistency.

h.b.

your all

i bring you the last of me -
a few coins in the bucket.
it’s all I have.
how pathetic.
“thank you,” i hear you say.
“thank you for giving me your all.”
i scoff.
i laugh.
i squandered it all.
there’s so much more that I once had.
i wish that i would’ve given you that.
“thank you,” i hear you say.
“thank you for giving me your all.”
how could you honor this?
i didn’t give you my all,
not even my most or my first.
i gave you my scraps,
the last fruits, the leftovers.
“thank you,” i hear you say.
your eyes meet mine.
“it’s your heart, my love, that i’ve wanted this whole time.
i don’t need your goodness.
i don’t need your riches.
i don’t need your success.
i just want you.”
your calloused hands envelop mine.
this is a fire I’ve never known.
there is a whole history in your eyes
of the fight to bring me home.
your love is weighty,
and I’m swept up in you.
with every price you paid,
i could never repay you.
i am overwhelmed,
and wholly undone.
overtaken by awe.
“thank you,” i whisper.
“thank you for giving me your all.”

h.b.

imago dei

imago dei.
what an honor.
to wear skin like that which you lived in.
to have eyes that you painted with greater care and intention than the depths of the sky.
to have feet that walk the earth you spoke into being.
i am dirt that you breathed upon.
and i get to carry your breath in my lungs.
i am clay that you formed.
and i get to carry your form.
i am the one that spilled your blood.
and i get to carry your blood in my veins.
i am everything unholy.
but you make me whole again.
imago dei.
i am unworthy to even exist in an image resembling yours.
what an honor.
what a grace.
let me be faithful to the glory of your face.

h.b.

find me here

i like to say that God’s an artist,
that he paints the sky each day,
that his grace is a great big brush,
painting his love for earth’s display.
but i think the truth is much grander,
much more beautiful in fact,
that he hung the stars and moon in place,
for more than just to marvel at.
written in the sky above us -
a message that there’s more.
that this God of glory has no end,
an invitation to explore.
we’ve walked upon the promise,
with each small step and giant leap.
his hand always upon us,
our eyes on endless galaxies.
it’s true that God’s an artist,
a writer, architect, engineer,
but above all he’s a father,
and his voice calls, “find me here.”