Lamar Howell's Weblog

I sweat when I quote poetry about my Christ

Shiny beads pop out on my skin

and I feel a flush rising from my shoulders,

flowing out my face in exhalation.

I freeze when I contemplate His Majesty

Gel into slow motion

It labors me to move

bends me,  the weightiness of His worth

moves me closer to the pavement.

It grips my gut like a vise when I feel His pleasure,

turns my center of gravity counter-clockwise

as I steady my knees, like a runner, with both hands.

Oh! but what I would give to tell the world,

to say something – one thing – that would ring

forever in their souls

even one unforgettable unrehearsed

angelicly chiropracticked

gesture heavenward.

I swallow hard to think it may never be

that I could miss the chance

to stand on a soapbox for His highest Honor

and be hidden by a passing cloud of revelation.

I’m astonished when I scream of his pierced victories

I breathe harshly, embarrassed by my  gutteral sobs

Thunder-struck by the gulf between what can be said

and all that is unutterable.

Why a cross, nails, and a circle of thorns

so conquer and occupy  my mind

is hard to say,

but God – my own dearest God –

let me try.