A Poem Called Wreckage

In the sport of racing they say,

your car goes where your eyes go.

And maybe it applies

to more than just tracks and tires,

perhaps – the unveiling of full life.

To barriers and trees,

we shall resist,

we shall not follow,

but as we view our Creator,

standing ever so humbly and patient,

our pride, we are called to swallow.

We must choose within the moments of ripe mornings

and what is freshly brewed,

to focus our eyes on the only One who fully sees us yet remains still in complete admiration,

the only One who makes us new.

And if we keep our eyes locked long enough on the King of all the kings,

we will crash into our line of focus,

and wrecked, our lives will be.

But not a wreckage of shame and all things produced by the absence of the light,

no, a wreckage similar to a crowded, moving and active, construction type of site.

Knocking down what is old, what is no longer necessary,

an absolute wreckage of all the darkness,

all the guilt that we did carry.

There is blood in this crash but no, it is not of our own.

It is blood already bled.

What we see is of the throne.

Upon our skin, we do feel new scabs

but our new skin will arrive,

and it is a miraculous site to see,

what was apart of us for so long,

oh, it will no longer be.

And this crash I speak of,

we must be willing to get into each new day.

With every new sunrise and grass fields of dew,

we were designed for this daily wreckage.

Yes, me

and Yes, you.

We were designed to hold complete focus,

simply on our everlasting Prize,

even as we still stand a long way off,

we are loved far too widely to

be careless of the reflection in our eyes.