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Poetry

Poetry

Psalm of the Suitcase

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I carry my old suitcase
everywhere,
The handle worn
so perfectly to fit my grip,
My grip so practiced and so tigh,
I barely know it’s there.    
Inside is everything I own,
My kingdom,
My sense of independent el.

Sometimes by grace
I put it down
And smell the stench
Of rotting flesh inside,
And satan tells me:
Put in some perfume -
And off I go.
My desperation mounts
When by His win,
stunted sense of smell
Cannot pretend that all is well.
I tell myself it’s not as bad
As her suitcase.
I heft mine up and carry on.

've learned to "doctor up" the flesh
with all I do
and know
and have.


But when the pain of joylessness
And loneliness
Delivers me from self defense,
I neel and see
the endless Sea of Blood
And throw the suitcase in
(my old best friend),
and give myself into His hands
for real this time.

t's there I'm freed,
there at the cross.
It’s there He feeds me without cost,
Because my hands are empty,
inally,
No idol of control.
t's there tha Jesus
ashes clean
And purifies my soul.
And when He fills my childlike thirst
And heart,
I’m full of Him.
My hands are filled with Love
And Life Himself.
I’ve found my rest,
All free from shame and stubborn will.
He is my life, my joy, 
My beauty and my peace.

--Marilyn C.