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.