I’ve never written poetry. This arrived one evening uninvited.
OBEY
Formed by God for his purpose
Joined by evil at birth
Fragments upon contact with the world
Countless pieces molded by time
Pieces coalesce into self
Other pieces remain. Remnants.
Floating, tormenting, avoidant
Self has new partners. Not within. Not without.
Where does one end and the other begin
When one dies what remains? Who lives?
Evil ever present.
God waiting.
A spirit enters
Where does he reside?
Self protects, argues, stalls.
The Spirit calls.
Obedience.
How challenging the call.
Evil answers no.
Self knows.
Where is the brain?
Which side does it take?
Who is it that still floats around whispering, yelling NO!!
The Spirit calls.
What to yield?
Nothing.
How to yield?
Don’t.
Each remnant speaks, each voice sounding the same.
Who is speaking?
Who calls?
Evil rebounds and mockery begins.
“I’m God, listen to me.”
The mockery stings.
It makes little sense.
Yet do I listen?
Resignation. Reluctant obedience.
“That wasn’t me.”
God.
Alone. His voice.
Where is the brain?
Who now listens?
Who speaks?
The mockery is so real, so close.
The remnants poke and prod.
Comfort, ego, pride join in.
A chorus of voices now.
It was better back when.
Lust calls out. What about me?
The Spirit calls.
The self, some new, some old, stands still.
Frozen.
The Spirit calls.
What now?
There is but one answer
Obey.
The chorus cries out.
It was better back then
Return to Egypt.
The self considers.
This I know.
Return how?
Dismiss the Spirit?
The Spirit calls.
Again.
Forward or back.
I cannot remain.
One more time.
Surrender to Him. Obey.
Self dies again.
The brain aches.
The remnant cries out.
Self is dying.
Self is being born.
The Spirit calls.
B. F. Adams
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And Jesus said to them, “Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s.” And they were amazed at Him. – Mark 12:17