Condescend Again

Your years, they never change.
Never change.

You, whose years endure,
can condescend?

Yes, yes, you ascended, I know,
that I confess willingly.
Maybe even to say you ascend continually,
bearing my fleshly presence in your own
before Papa.

But condescension?
Doesn't that undermine who you are?
Wouldn't you be too close?

Please, don't come too close.
I've barred off some parts I'm quite sure
you wouldn't bear to see.

You see, this is for your own good, God.
I know you have holy ears,
so I want to protect you from my filthy, hurting speech.
I know you have holy eyes,
so I want to protect you from my writhing, body in anguish.
I know you have holy smell,
so stay away from my rotting corpse of a soul.
I know you have holy taste,
so please don't let your lips meet mine.

And yet.
You know whats best.

You know all along,
my fight and struggle was merely
an ignorant reaching,
a feeble prayer,
a pathetic plea,
to the God I know is Salvation.

And now, as then, you condescend.
Pro Nobis, and now En Nobis.
You enter into my reality,
and bring me to share in your own,
Triune God of the gospel.

Would you grant,
most merciful Papa,
that sweet legacy
may cut through
the vanity?

Would you see to it
that your faithfulness,
manifested in this charismatic life,
may bear fruit,
powerful, poignant fruit,
that cuts through the white noise
of our day?

I feel your breath,
I see your hand,
I anticipate your leading.

Come and condescend again.