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Praying Maranatha. Praying Wait.

O God of patience,

we cry maranatha—come quick

—but also want you to wait

just a little longer.

Your work, which also is ours, is

not done. Too few have heard

the Shepherd’s voice and without aim

wander about in un-green pastures.

We’ve stepped past the hungry man,

hesitated to glance at the shoeless woman,

and have recoiled at the thought of

sharing good news with neighbors.

We forgot. Perhaps we neglected,

on purpose, the Commission,

great as it is. A sweet ideal

best relegated to the Land of Sermons.

We’ve been enchanted by the allure

of cloistering away in buildings,

being fed, all the while unknowingly

starving ourselves on a diet of inspiration.

We’ve found ourselves in the shallows,

wading ankle high and unwilling

to risk a few steps forward

into the deep, upon which you walk.

But it is out there, drenched in your patience,

where one is lifted-dropped, lifted-dropped,

that they realize ‘to go’ ultimately means

‘to be carried.’ I’m going. Maranatha. But wait.

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