I heard your grumbling.
My glory, my glory — why is it always about my glory?
But let me raise you a question:
if not my glory,
then whose? 
Yours? 
Didn’t we already try that?
My son, get up out of your bag 
& off thy high horse.
You wanna be Alpha, King, Author?
Bet. Let’s compare stories.

I read your manuscript,
and I won’t call it boring,
but it put all of my angels to sleep.
I found your plot
beneath a heap of debris and rocks — 
revisions, whiteouts, and red ink
where your failures and doubts should be.
I mean, at least you tried,
but son, who are you running from?
Your mind has traded the light of my Sun for candles,
your mind is the place where I’ve given you the grace 
to pen away your shackles,
yet you hide behind holy lines as if 
the Spirit of God can’t spot 
the cobwebs of your pride.

And you know me,
I can’t lie — 
I’m underwhelmed by your writing style. 
Every chapter, there he goes,
the lone wolf,
always at the center 
of a world
that even he was born into.
First the pride, then the fall, then the tears,
but blame God — 
my son (can I call You that, Almighty One?),
don’t this tune ever get boring?

Forget the story, forget their applause, 
forget the stars that cloud your nights,
just remember my cross,
even in the dark, there is a light,
there is a moon,
find me 
in the deepest, forbidden rooms of your heart and see that
there is just me and you
at a table for two.
Your thoughts don’t scare me,
I’m not surprised by your moods.
But you think of glory
like a child thinks of food,
so allow me to correct your view.

My glory is your joy.
My glory is your pain.
Because you will rise again.
Because I have given you the strength.
There’s plenty to go ‘round,
it multiplies in the grind,
but listen, my glory will always
be mine.

You can tantrum, you can whine, 
give yourself time to unwind, 
because after all, you are only human.
Yet each time you blink,
I blink a galaxy into being.
You’re impatient because you’re only 23.
Yet the history of man is but a breath to me.

On the days when 
your knees are low enough to the ground,
you will touch the sky and find that I
have already shaped you on the inside with my word,
and the only writer blocking the glory the lies beyond the hurt
is you.

Trust me
when I tell you
to place your red pen
in my hand.
We both know my best work is done in red.
Besides, I cannot pour my glory into a cup 
so full of itself.
But I’m a reasonable God,
so I’ll ask you one last time:
if not my glory,
then whose?
I’ll let you choose.


Cover Photo by Viktor Juric on Unsplash