It's more akin to touch than to sight ...or sound
A focused vibration
felt within my bones
My eyes can't spot it
My ears don't detect even the smallest whisper when it begins
And at its crescendo, I'm buzzing and sharp
And aloud, I say, "Yes LORD? Your servant is here!"
And then it subsides
And it's no longer clear
Did I feel that?
Was it real?
I doubt it;
I feel...
That even if angels came down to my street
And lifted me up - right off of my feet
And for minutes, held me airborne
Two yards off the ground!
I'm certain, the moment that I was brought down...
I would doubt my own senses
That's why I can't be
The chosen, the faithful,
Who's allowed to see
Prone to scoff at the stories
Of loved ones who'd swear
There is something much bigger than ourselves out there
Prone to wander and wallow
Prone to spit, not to swallow
The stories of old
As I stray from the fold
"Prone to wander, Lord I feel it,
Prone to leave the God I love
Here's my heart, O take and seal it,
Seal it for Thy courts above."
Amen