We got lost on the way to the map store.
There is no padded dirt on the way to the Lord.
On His mountain, there is no air-conditioned picnic table;
there’s a passion you can’t touch,
but you can bushwhack your way to His toes.
Now, where were we going?
Were we driving toward the sunrise,
or away from it?
I’m out of danger, but not out of longing — a pining for your touch,
for your shoulder under my fingertips.
I see you naked in the snow that day,
and I see the scars hidden beneath your skin.
Don’t hide from them by removing your clothes.
I can see in your eyes hints of a fear you never named, of a brother you never embraced.
But hear me now, hear this:
Your tracks have derailed my train,
if only your lips knew my name.