He walks
perimeters of our lives —
the walled outposts
of fortress built of wood and stone,
merchandise all on loan
from Him
who made the trees,
molded all the stone —
observes the trenches we have dug
to keep Him out,
keep our things in —
the camouflage we made to hide within.

See! In His hands are gifts
of wisdom’s gold, and sacrificial love,
bought dearly on a cross.
New life with wealth untold
He offers, in exchange
for our impoverished dross.

He speaks — we do not hear.
The muffled voices in our head
distort His words, cause us to dread
this King with gifts to bring
more valuable than any
we have known.

He could break our clay,
whose power stays the sun and stars.
But that is not His way . . .
He waits for hearts to recognize
what He has done,
and after we have run the way alone,
gently says, “Come home.”