First Good

　　Oh death, I will be thy plagues; O grave, I will be thy destruction

　　The light has shone

　　over every day I was alive,

　　and has followed me to death,

　　holding me up like the crush of friends

　　—amazing grace—

　　after a game or race, so close

　　to each other we trade in breath

　　and sweat and the giddy whirl

　　of success. We made it. I swim through

　　—how great thou art—

　　the smoothest cosmos, backstroking

　　my way to gilded steps and fiery

　　stones—the gates of the very sun.

　　The weight of Earth and all my many

　　—blessed assurance—

　　stones, both thrown and caught

　　by the bruise of my body, settle

　　to the bottom of this sweet, black

　　ocean. Sprint the last hundred yards.

　　—it is well—

　　The light will only grow

　　like mustard seed, soaring

　　to heights that brush the limits

　　of outer space, a holy tree of life.

　　—great is thy faithfulness—

　　The rich thrush of love

　　breaks over me in waves. This

　　is a love without restraint, without doors

　　or windows or stone blocks setting aside

　　—be thou my vision—

　　a plot in the sprawling city of gods.

　　This love devours me, yet gives me

　　so much more—more time,

　　infinite time. Join me in the sandbox.

　　—to God be the glory—

　　The blazing light is more than halo

　　or polished rush of a bodiless spirit.

　　He is the ideal father, arms open

　　wider than flood gates, letting

　　—how firm a foundation—

　　the cool waters sift through

　　my clothes and fill my eager

　　lungs and open hands—drink it

　　up, gulp until you are full, dig for Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

　　—how great you are—

　　the dregs. You will never reach them.

　　His cup is overflowing, and the outer

　　reaches of space have become an ocean,

　　bucking and kicking and running

　　—come thou fount—

　　like horses over and through

　　my battered being. I have always felt

　　a little alone, even when others confidently

　　chattered and worked around and over me

　　—a mighty fortress is our God—

　　like an army of ants.

　　But here I feel the unfamiliar ache,

　　of belonging. That canvas in the corner

　　belonged to me. I painted that nebula,

　　—just as I am—

　　measured the foundations

　　of that star cluster, designed

　　the softest leaves that frolic on Earth trees

　　before tumbling back to death. I shiver

　　—it is well with my soul—

　　with goodness that threatens

　　to dance through the tangles of clouds

　　and galaxies. He watches over

　　them all, hands stained from kneeling

　　—in the garden—

　　in the dirt, skin chapped and leathered

　　from working in the sun, eyes the deepest

　　pools of silk I have ever seen. At his side,

　　a woman blazing with beauty that burns

　　—a mother there—

　　my skin, and kindness that unlocks

　　the tallest walls in me. My mother`s

　　mother. A seer who painted the sunsets

　　I gawked at while a simple child nestled in

　　—the sweet by and by—

　　the slowly rocking chair of Earth

　　and her sisters. Together they hold

　　the simple title of God, a word

　　that does no justice, holds no weight

　　—what a friend we have—

　　to the guardian couple of eternity.

　　Father seems more fitting, Mother

　　seems more true. And the way they stretch

　　towards me, arms and hands hungry

　　—depth of mercy—

　　to hold me once more, even as dirty

　　as I am, a child who tumbled

　　through a forest of pricks and

　　needles, crawled under fences and caught

　　—walk in the light—

　　on stones, who scratched their hands

　　and rubbed their knees raw, aching

　　to stand instead of crawl& I am

　　encircled, enshrined, burned away

　　—be thou my vision—

　　with the commanding scrawl

　　of divinity. A son burrowed

　　in his mother`s arms. A daughter

　　peering over her father`s shoulder,

　　—the great physician—

　　little hands clinging to his shirt.

　　She invites me to her planets

　　and instruments, measures the weight

　　of ocean air and butterfly wings.

　　—we are going down to the valley—

　　He walks me through his gardens,

　　lengthening the stalks, strengthening

　　the roots with a practiced eye

　　and practiced faith. We are all beings

　　—glorious things of thee are spoken—

　　of something brighter than mere

　　light, exploring the self through creation.

　　And it corners and captures the loose pieces

　　of me, pieces I gave and pieces I stole,

　　—wholly thine—

　　and pieces that burned away

　　like summer mornings giving in

　　to the yoke of sugary, caffeine-free, diet sin.

　　It all burns to nothing here, all amounts to

　　—whispering hope—

　　everything. I am the queen,

　　ruling with the might and force

　　of love fervor. I am the king,

　　the luminary, wielding the weight

　　—the king of love—

　　of the worlds with little more

　　than a word of kindness—it is good.

　　The love of Father and Mother enkindles,

　　flickers and ignites, brands me with Godly

　　—rock of ages—

　　rule that stoops below the crawling

　　caterpillar and ensnares the singing

　　sparrow. God is so much more than mere flash

　　and fire, light and sun. God is good,

　　—o perfect love—

　　and all,

　　and love.