Thank You: A Conversation with Wisdom

Oh, how I love thee, Wisdom.

For you have become to me like a sister;
you have made insight my closest of friends.

Every day you come and visit me,
Staying long, dwelling in my home.
You gently speak, sometimes loudly shout,
Your words are the greatest of treasures; I hold them very close to my heart.

Where would I be without you!
What would I have become?

For my own strength would have been counted as the dust,
my efforts as a futile pursuit.

But you, Wisdom, are a lamp to my feet, a light to my path,
A help, a guide, my daily companion.

Home

How beautiful would the song of the angels have been,
as they welcomed them home.

The beauty that was promised to be seen,
now gazed upon.

His fullness now experienced in a form of entirety,
As we gaze into the eyes of eternity.

How beautiful are his feet,
they carried good news.
His eyes are like fire,
his hair is as wool.
His voice like the sound of many waters,
yet it stills my soul.

How beautiful is the song of the angels,
as we are welcomed home.

Spoken word version of Home

Swings

A poem by Zephaniah

“Higher, higher, higher!” she shouts,

“You’re not pushing me, high enough!

I want to touch the sky,

Put my head in the clouds,

See the sun, the stars, the moon.”

“Careful… careful”, he responds,

“Not too high now, what if you fall.

It’s dangerous and scary, what if you hurt yourself?”

“I won’t hurt myself,” she replies,

Smiling, she looks out, assured,

“You’ll be there to catch me if I fall.”

Listen to Swings recited by Zephaniah.

Waiting

I waited,

I saw only shadows, figures of the night,

Tall and ominous, immovable, unknown.

But, I waited.

They were now pointing, scowling, rough,

I stared back, one seemed to stir, to make a move,

But, I waited.

The shadows started to emerge, the light of dawn started to arise, as I sat at my window’s post, as the sun arose,

The truth unveiled by my waiting,

I saw those shadows and figures for what they truly were,

Those scowling shadows, once ominous and immovable, unknown,

Those figures of the night, that cause doubt and fear,

Simply, just, trees and houses.

The Bird in My Garden

A poem by Zephaniah.

“How I long to be as free as a bird,

Hopping among the leaves,

Gliding from tree to tree,

The entire world is my playground,

The work of others is my feed,

I see and bask in all of creation, and its creativity,

Its energy. Come rain, sun or storm,

I’m always reminded that I am free.

Then I stopped looking at the bird in my garden,

And I’m reminded that the bird is me.”

Narrated version of The Bird in My Garden