—Photo by James Lee Jobe
A PRAYER IN SPRINGTIME
—James Lee Jobe, Davis
I pray that the stars in heaven might be laid on velvet before Your feet, like jewels, like the wish that follows the dream, diamonds that speak in a whisper of living.
I pray that the ocean might be a threshold for all that You love to cross, wave after wave of beauty passing in time, stepping through to drumbeats, sanctuary, a new home, a new place.
I pray that the finest canopy of the forest might welcome the brightly plumed birds of Your soul; a wooded choir, close and safe, the flower of song to greet You at the blossom of each day.
I pray that the mountains might be Your snow-peaked door, and pushing through, a universe spins like a pinwheel on the wind sliding off of the river, like the truth on fire, calling You outside to pray.
And what of us, the people who worship before You, bent knees sore on hard stone, the open hearts and hopes that brought us spring out of the cruel, bare winter?
I pray that we might learn to love You for what You are, not that which we would have You to be; mother, father, keeper of the great empty void.
—James Lee Jobe, Davis
I pray that the stars in heaven might be laid on velvet before Your feet, like jewels, like the wish that follows the dream, diamonds that speak in a whisper of living.
I pray that the ocean might be a threshold for all that You love to cross, wave after wave of beauty passing in time, stepping through to drumbeats, sanctuary, a new home, a new place.
I pray that the finest canopy of the forest might welcome the brightly plumed birds of Your soul; a wooded choir, close and safe, the flower of song to greet You at the blossom of each day.
I pray that the mountains might be Your snow-peaked door, and pushing through, a universe spins like a pinwheel on the wind sliding off of the river, like the truth on fire, calling You outside to pray.
And what of us, the people who worship before You, bent knees sore on hard stone, the open hearts and hopes that brought us spring out of the cruel, bare winter?
I pray that we might learn to love You for what You are, not that which we would have You to be; mother, father, keeper of the great empty void.
_________________________
—Medusa
