The Missionary

In May, I visited a missionary couple for an evening of fascinating stories about their lives on the mission field in South America. Afterwards, we had a beautiful time of prayer for the jungle tribes they have invested their lives in.There is something so raw and unsettling (and INSPIRING) in the agony of missionaries over the souls of the lost. I drove home trembling that night. This poem is dedicated to those missionaries.

Leans forward,

forward in his chair

on one muscled arm

and the room rivets on him,

crying, strong man crying,

weeping, pointing, pleading

"Jesus, save their souls! My people, Lord, Yours, not hell's."

Something strong inside me breaks.

A presupposition that we're strong--

snaps.

Here I am, glory blinded

peering into the soul of a man

bleeding for untouched tribes,

untouched, claiming them,

untouched, touching them,

untouched, bringing them

to God's throne and

throwing his life at God's feet

crying,

"Use me!"

Reckless love is

fearful, and as I sway

in its wake, I

see its overflow

glistening in

pools

on the wooden floor.