Idols

How many times do I need to worship things my hands made, before I learn how it ends? 

Why do I strive to see, and feel, and control, so I can craft, and shape, and mold

The objects of my affection? 

Wanting to put reins on a wild God and control Him. 

You slip through my fingers so I search for what I can grasp, 

Always my hands, making me make heartbreak with sand. 

Why does it have to be what I can see, 

When to see you is to be healed from blindness? 

And to feel you is to know what my body was created for? 

And to hear your words is for my ears to understand their purpose? 

A brush with you makes me all the me I can be, 

Broken at your feet, a fragment of your picture, a child with nothing to bring and endless room inside to receive. 

I want to smash these idols in my room, vomit at the thought of how much time my mind crafted them, how much oil my heart poured out as I worshiped with my attention. 

Will I never learn? 

Will I never obey? 

And am I only moved to create when it’s others I want to see me as great? 

How many hours have I balked at this altar, 

Waiting for false promises that never came? 

Indoctrinating my heart with false gospels like the lies can’t wait? 

So that I can be great? 

So that I can absorb like a sponge the weight of this world and be filled and not empty with everything but you. 

Everything but you, I’ve been feasting on. And I can feel myself withering away. 

Everything that says it’s life but leads to my decay. 

Everything that sells me out and promises it will be great. 

When will my palette change from dopamine hits to real grace?