Can I wash my thoughts clean?
Can I turn them inside out?
Can I transform my thoughts to glean?
Can they be renewed? I pout.
Is that Your work Holy Spirit?
Washing my thoughts? Or am I too mean?
Try other ways, primp and preen?
Am I doomed until I’ve made them seen?
I feel like a child throwing a tantrum,
But an adult, I want to be.
I want to grow like an oak in the garden,
that others come to see.
Will it always be a huff and puff?
Hard work all the way?
Or will there be something I use my gruff,
And transform it into play?
Even now as I put pen to paper,
free my thoughts out to breathe,
The intensity turns into a caper,
And I allow myself a reprieve.
Enjoy this season of transformation,
It will always be your bread.
I am growing in emancipation,
And it will be this way till I’m dead.
But even then, I gain new life,
With You free from the grave.
For death, with you, has no strife,
And believing that makes me brave.
So, I will lift my head again,
And once again, I will breathe in,
I will let my eyes search along the plain,
And go, a smile beaming from within.