Write on me

It's been so long since I've seen a burning bush

Some seasons I see them in every desert wash

The magnificence, the miracle . . . "burning and not being consumed."

Yet who do I fool?

Moses paid dearly for his burning bush - sweaty desert miles and exhausted, sweaty tears -

All for the dubious blessing of talking with God.

What claim have I to a burning bush? (or to God?)

I have not yet even learned to remove my shoes!

I've learned so much of me.

Every inch of it has hurt . . .

to see honestly and at length . . .

because at first all I could see were the wounds of humanity.

I looked for cool, unflawed marble of deity but found only a heart of flesh . .

but hearts of flesh are all that God can write on.

Write on me, Father, Write on me.

Barbara Francken Kelley


Taken from "Holy Sweat" by Tim Hansel

Note: I'm not sure what the title of the poem is. The one I used is not the original title.