Our place called “home” is secure,
It’s a gently winding stream,
No haphazard time abounds to procure,
Paralleled to it – a dream.
Special that it is at all,
A promise that he came,
And we ask ourselves why so tall,
Hearts these ours to tame.
Many have not known a father,
And certainly not like you,
We would as well rather,
It never to be ever so true.
The hand of the Father captivates,
Inspires, soothes and assures,
Utopia of spirit settles and dates,
His hand’s found as it allures.
Father’s heart is spilled of grace,
Reliant upon it are we to be,
Confidence’s a thriller – the ace,
Emergent and entirely free of fee.
The call of God sits over our lives,
It lifts us when we’re dilapidated,
Called higher to heaven, then us dives,
To what we know now captivated.
This Father’s heart sits as one,
Over that throne of ours,
We that knew a life that spun,
Hours upon wasted hours.
And still we know the Father,
Gracious and preciously sure,
A Being that would seem to garner,
All us children to his door.
The concept of the Father’s heart is a wonderful allusion to the Almighty Presence of God as a father-figure to the fatherless, and of the many forms that takes.
Many and too many of those who’ve known this existence, be it an absent father or an abusive one, will best most resonantly cling to the better paradigm of the Father. They can only truly know what fatherhood is really like in coming to know the God of their souls.
And certainly this pertains to all of us, for who of us have had perfect fathers? Indeed, which of us (for males with children) is, indeed, a perfect father? (I see the hands that were once raised slowly falling.) This derides us not; all fathers—with their failings—also generally have a portion of the Father’s heart.
But it beckons us more and more.
We all need the Father.
© 2010 S. J. Wickham.