The Dirge of Weeping Praises

Agony,
agony,
yet but praise-full agony.
Gradual torment
tempered by gradual bliss.

Dying to self
yet once selfishly killing
all the dreams I wished to have,
because of fleeting whims
and dim desires that fall
to the shadows of my past
when I raise my hands,
blood pouring
in euphoric praise.

The offering cup,
seeping from my soul,
soothes my aching hopes.
Tears caress my cheeks
and I realise, as I raise my arms
towards the sky,
that dreams may not yet die.

My vision goes pale red
and I know instead
of falling to fears
and yesteryears,
that my future is encapsulated
in the possibility of praise.

My words come in fleeting whispers
that none but God may hear.

I don’t even truly know
what lies beneath the surface.
All I know is that
I’m built to last,
and I will not fall…
Even when I’m lying in the coffin
of praise,
I will not fall.

I die in praise,
I die in kindness and beauty,
and fear falls from my frame
as I remember that I am to blame
for all my sin and shame,
and yet Jesus takes it all again.

Each day, He comes
and sits beside me as I weep,
and I know that tomorrow is tomorrow,
yesterday is all over again,
and now I am His son.

If all I can do is weep,
might as well weep praises.


Matt K, 2004