Wednesday, April 26, 2006

The Broom

Thank you, God.
For my place.
Under your great and gracious skies.
For a house, a tree, a swing.
For beauty that is small and precious.

I praise You,
For You are the Giver
Of all good things.

You bring into my life
Each day,
A task that is as humble as a broom.
You say--Sweep!

There is a friend to be listened to...
A card to be sent,
A home to be cared for.

I sweep dust
Into my own face.
I could just cry.
I feel so clumsy, so ordinary,
So unfit for Your Holy calling.

But when I get tired
You take away my broom,
And You sit me down
On a bench,
For a drink of lemonade.

I realize that I haven't minded the job.
There are golden glints in the straw.

Soon, I'm ready to sweep again.
With hands that are more tender
And a heart that is more willing to be taught.

I praise You, Lord,
Suffering servant, and victorious King,
For the privilege of taking
Even one stroke...
With my broom.


"And He said to them all, If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow me." ~Luke 9:23

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