The line winded endlessly through the Bucharest airport. Our squad had spent the night on the floor in a corner by the bathrooms and now we stared bleary eyed at where we imagined the check-in desk to be, somewhere ensconced behind the multitude of people and baggage which made up the line. Every so often, the queue would shift forward, and we would stand, grip our airporter strap, tug our 65 liter packs a foot forward, and then collapse back onto the floor until movement was again detected. I sunk into a curve in my big pack and pulled out my notes app. Maybe it was the fever- dream state I was in from the lack of sleep, or maybe it was the roller coaster of emotions that had shamelessly flung me back and forth that day, but I wanted to organize the words that had been floating aimlessly in my head between the bus and trains and dirty floors. I wrote a poem about God, not only my Savior and my King, but the love of my life.
Your love is a poem
You are the liturgy of my life,
The song of my soul’s desire,
Words fall short
And only insufficient worship remains.
We raise our confused hearts and brains
And trembling fingers.
Water over water
Heaven descends to form flesh
Immaculate white covers our burning red
And iridescent glory fills the room.
Perfectly scripted is this poem
Scratched into the sky
And seared into every insistent cry.
Memorized by creation
So upwells uninhibited praise
By crying out in creaky murmurs
Displaying your splendor with romantic ferver.
Your love is a poem that infiltrates
This weary, remorseful earth
Watering it with eternal rebirth
As the earth shatters and sins dark stains
Fade away with all the pain.
Your love is a poem
Never stop singing it to me
My God, My Life, My Eternity,
Line after line, word after word,
Until my very being is affixed
To your exquisite ardency.
