Words, from You
Words tumble down, out of my thoughts, onto the page.
What will You do with them, Lord?
They belong to You. They come from me—Your creation, Your design, Your child.
I am arrogant when I polish them up to reflect me. I am self-absorbed when I wonder what others will say or think when they read them. They flow through me, and as they spill and splash and sparkle I often forget: I am merely the vessel. The fingers that work the keyboard, the mind that processes pictures and feelings and concepts, the eyes that see the words and sentences take form—each is a miraculous gift from You.
All good things come from You.
Are my words worthwhile? The moment I force them, see myself as the grand designer, feel my chest swell with pride, they lose value. For You.
Use me as You will, Lord. To write or not to write. To pound the keys or to simply sit. And wait. For You. With You.
When I write, when I feel You pushing, expanding within me, nudging me to return to the page, yoke my efforts to Yourself so I must remain with You, rather than sprint ahead for some perceived prize. Harness my fleeting motivation and self-confidence with Your love so they might strain in the right direction and for the right cause—Your Kingdom. Not mine. Not man’s.
Let every word I write drift through Your hands so it is first shaped by You. Let me linger in Your Presence and write by faith, by Your leading, by Your strength, not by the determined decision to simply perform and shine.
It’s the sitting, listening, responding that matters—not the doing. You are molding me as I determine to let You shape my meanderings. My efforts. My words, from You.
Your words, Lord. Not mine.