Tim is a sub-deacon, father of 3, teacher and homeschooler from Melbourne, Australia.
A filter has been dropped
Into the filth, clearing the waters;
The humming needle has been
Sensitised to the magnet a little more.
For no great reason, the Holy One has
Sent His seraphic Grace down to me,
Touching my lips,
Unworthy, unseeking a spark.
An ache has been planted,
And it illumines my path— showing me the dark
Mountains, thorns, lonely places— like a flare.
A Great Comfort beats with my heart
— the birthpains of unceasing prayer.
It is Christ,
And this constant Remembrance
Remembers me more than I It,
Or better He.
I see myself anew— filthy from the clothes
I've slept in too long, still hurt and hurtful
And in many ways wrong,
But carrying a small candle in a jar over the rocks,
That I can't say I've held before,
Breathing the Most-Pure Name
To fan It to full flame,
To fan myself to flame.