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.