Pale Dots on an Inky Sky

Pale Dots on an Inky Sky

(“Because you are sons, God has sent forth the Spirit of His Son into our hearts, crying, 'Abba! Father!'” Galatians 4:6)

I did not pick up this sword on my own,
it was placed there, in my arms, by those (though planning no harm)
who designed their plan of war and placed me in position.

Let me rephrase that: perhaps I did raise the sword, but it
was not for the enemy they chose. They recited my duty,
verse by verse, and expected a fiery spectacle with their
enemies dying at my feet.

Please do not blame them; it is the only warfare they know.
Please do not mistake me as one of their own. I belong,
it is true,
to the same one they name. And, without comment about
whose tent they inhabit, I have found the Name warmer
than the fires of Big Guns ordered by General or Admiral.

I wield it wisely, or I do not wield it at all. I have heard
the call, once so far away I wished to hush the breeze to hear it.
Like a pale dot on the inky sky, barely perceptible, yet I knew,
up close it would fill my purview many worlds over. I have
heard
the call. Within this time. And it obscures every design and order
I thought I was under. Stronger, fiercer, the volcano's exclamation;
and yet: Softer, familiar, the dove's invitation.

One was the broken fissure, having blown its top,
the other is volcano fire, the power no one can stop.
One was human mapping the divine,
the other, the Father fully safe, never benign.

My hand grips the sword, my heart gripped by my Father's words,
and I swing, oh so very rarely, only to free the prisoners, cutting
through their chains,
denouncing all names but the One Name who is Abba to
all who will believe.