A poem I wrote at the beach last year…
I am a sandcastle,
molded from mud by my Maker
to be a monument to His creativity and craftsmanship,
sculpted from silica by holy hands
to be a holy house inhabited by praise.
But battering against the noble purposes of heaven’s Artist
Are the waves of time and decay, curse and fall,
Crashing around my feeble frame.
The repeated pounding of months and years
Taking its toll, clawing back from my tenuous hold
The grains of my life, lost to the cruelty of the uncaring tide.
I feel the weakness in these bones of dust
I am bowed low with the groaning of my redeemed frame,
longing to be liberated
from the relentless onslaught of entropy.
How long, O Lord?
How long until the storm is past,
until the purposes for which you molded me
are fully formed
into a finished palace worthy of a King?
These questions ache and pound inside
my slowly collapsing walls and ramparts.
But the answer lies in the entropy itself,
all creation aching, groaning, weeping, crying
that this is not the way it was,
nor the way that it will be.
The whisper in the wind and waves is that
the curse will not consume forever,
Death will drag its last victim to the deep,
futility will have a final night of weeping,
I am dust, and to dust I shall return.
But one day, dust will wake.
One night will be the last night,
One storm will be the last storm,
One hurt will be the last hurt.
One day, the shadowed aching of ransomed hearts
will shine like the sun,
rising into an eternal noon of endless day.
This fragile form of earth and clay
will be transfigured into unshakeable substance.
And on that day,
it will be revealed to the world and to me
that the hands which molded me from mud
were the same hands which weathered me with wind and wave,
lines of love etched with purposes of pain,
the Creator still creating out of chaos
art to sing his praise.
And having passed through storm and sea,
I will stand on that shining shore,
an edifice of eternality,
a monument to His mercy