The Victor of my Heart,
a compass may tell the leanings of the earth,
a sail may suggest the motives of the wind,
but who, besides the Spirit of the Lord, can navigate
the bloodwaters of the heart?
Who divides a man’s yes apart his no,
preempting the whipping tongue?
Who boasts knowledge
of the heart’s feudal geography?
Who could contain the weight of this paradox:
the mighty humility which sags the world to soft prostration?
Who is this who penetrates my soul with one of love’s precise fingers?
My Lord is my Champion.
Great Magnet, Sourcestone.
May I be a wife in his house, beloved,
fed kisses and tended with love in the untampered dawn.
Held tight. Held fast.
Smash the idols, upon which I have lavished gold and tears.
Remove the cutting boards I have tied my heart to.
Forgive my unskilled love and all the ways it wounds.
May your love be made full in me.
May I be made full of your love.
