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I am a dead animal
Lying on the altar
I can feel
The cold stone
Against my back
Stickiness of blood
Life staining stone

Is the gentle palm
Of breeze touching fields of wheat

I wait.

The still, small voice of truth
Says something strange
In me:

This is you:
Your bed
Is an altar.
This is you:
A broken carcass
Torn open.

This is what you can do:
This is the power you have:

To lay there

And wait for Me.

If I do nothing
Nothing will be done.
I’ve been fasting for days
My mouth stumbles when
I try to explain why.

It’s like desert
Questing for rain.

A living sacrifice.

The blood which is the life
Drains out of me

The truth of what we are.
Dead things
Waiting on stone
For the electricity of His touch

In all our animation.

We are dead things.

We enter into rest.

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