THE CARRYING – A Poem
A poem (using a cascading litany form), based on my recent post, “The Carrying”:
He carries.
Not merely sustains, as though the universe were a clock and He its distant keeper.
Not merely upholds, as though existence balanced itself upon borrowed momentum.
He carries.
The atom and the archangel, the whale-road and the wandering star, the dust mote adrift in a shaft of morning light, the fire of a thousand suns.
Every electron circling its hidden center. Every photon crossing impossible distances. Every breath drawn by every creature from Eden until now.
He carries.
The dice tumble across the table, striking wood, bouncing, turning, their final resting place already beneath His hand.
The clouds gather over thirsty fields. Rain falls upon furrow and forest. The earth drinks because He visits it.
What we call weather, Scripture calls God.
He carries.
Two sparrows flutter in a market cage, worth scarcely more than a laborer's hour.
One falls.
Not beyond His notice. Not outside His decree. Not beneath His concern.
And if the sparrow is carried, what of the child?
What of the saint?
What of you?
He carries.
In Esther's pages His name never appears.
No pillar of fire. No parted sea. No prophet crying in the streets.
Only a sleepless king.
A misplaced memory.
A scroll retrieved.
A banquet delayed.
A queen who rises.
A gallows waiting.
Invisible threads woven into an unbreakable tapestry.
The hidden Author turning every page.
He carries.
A pit near Dothan.
Silver changing hands.
Chains.
Years.
A prison.
A throne.
"What you meant for evil, God meant for good."
The sentence echoes through centuries.
It reaches a hill outside Jerusalem.
There the Holy One hangs between criminals.
Lawless hands strike the nails.
The Father's purpose stands.
The darkest deed ever committed becomes the brightest mercy ever given.
He carries.
The lilies clothed in borrowed splendor.
The galaxies wheeling through silent dark.
The Spirit hovering over chaos.
The Father ordaining.
The Son bearing.
The world itself resting upon a word.
And still—
He carries.
The grief no one sees.
The prayer whispered through tears.
The unanswered questions.
The failing body.
The trembling faith.
The weary pilgrim who wonders whether he can take another step.
He can.
Not because he is strong.
Because he is carried.
Lift up your eyes.
Beyond the noise, beyond the headlines, beyond the sorrow and the seeming accidents.
The hand that guides the sparrow guides the storm.
The hand that governs kingdoms numbers hairs.
The hand that flung galaxies into the dark was pierced for you.
And even now,
at this moment,
while stars burn, while rain falls, while kingdoms rise and crumble,
He carries.
He carries.
He carries.
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