I lay down my life.But what does that mean?I don’t know.  Or perhaps I do.That I let go of all that I had hoped…again…Which is all that He has promised,At least my hope of receiving it in this world.And in that, He says, there is hopeThat it will surely come When I am gone.What a surprise?And I feel it in my chest.The promise that I haven’t long.And so I baby this old frame.  I treat it gentlyWith the hope that I can get it all down before I go.Work, work, work.  Writing down the wordsThat are etched upon this flesh.And I hear the sound ring out from the unseen place.I hear the call of Him whom I serve.“Work, work,” he says,“Waste out what’s left of your lifeAnd let me be the thing that you desire.”

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