The Master's Fragrance

The Master’s Fragrance

(“Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, that you may prove what is the good and acceptable and perfect will of God.” Romans 12:2)

I will not be a copy, with words etched in strict architecture.
I will not be a clone, with genes spliced into a stonework façade.
I will not be written upon by ink that dries,
or by toner that flies as it prints a thousand duplicates
a thousand at a time.

I am not on display, nor a twice-dimensional brochure thrown
away
before it is fully read.
I am not a twin, nor an exact match made by mold of sand
that pressures my contours and sets me on the shelf, a price tag,
the same tag, of the 100 others on exhibit.

I am the perfumer’s brew, an essence, a changeable compound of
citrus and earth, lavender and soot, musk and magnolia.
I am the master’s fragrance, and though part of the original batch,
the aroma is my own. Take me, compare me, spritz me in the air,
and then tell me I am just the same as the bottle you bought last year.

I am incense, I am prayer. I am the candles that melt until the wax
congeals
un-candlelike,
and the scent permeates the places between person and person,
each perceiving a reason to pray. Though none tastes the fragrance
the same way.

So, diffuse me, as I am made; disperse me, recreate me.

For my former self is still covered in sand, smeared with ink,
and cracked in all the places the craftsmen hurried their work.

But You perfect me, with me so unsuspecting of such favor.
Infuse me with essences of winter into spring,
pour me and melt me, like a candle reused on the chancel
month after month. I’ve had chances I’ve squandered,
so please let these moments be enough
to transform the paper and stone
into light and cologne
that incites songs both holy and sweet
that leave me alive and completely undone.

You Infuse

You Infuse

(“Anyone who says, ‘I live in intimacy with Him,’ should walk the path Jesus walked.” 1 John 2:6)

Only You know the reservations,
the slow procrastination that paints me
static. I do not care about the dimensions (2D or
3D with glasses), I am sad about the stagnation.

Only You know I am like a painting at a museum.
A father takes his son to see “The Blue Boy” on the wall,
and the son takes his own son to see the same. I am the same,
unchanged. Beautiful in silky grey; warm in the background green,
I am mounted and unmoved.

You are a Master Artist, not a painter. I am
a new creation, not a painting. A father and a son
visit me apart and are not ashamed that I am unchanged.

Only You infuse my taciturn crawl with fragrant oil,
the perfume all nature wears unaware. In silence sometimes
I find
the tears I cried over misshapen mimicry are part
of the elixir, the tonic of Your love.

Being, I move. Trying, I lose every scented molecule
of Your affection. I have stocked an entire pantry with
colognes and sprays to disguise misguided efforts
to hammer my own painting tightly to the wall.

I would never lose the fragrance if I merely moved in
closer to
only You.