You spoke into the cavernous deep:

Let there be...

And there was.

And now, again,
You speak into me,
into the hollow, brooding
universe of my being:

Let there be…

Will there be?
Can there be newness
after so much wreckage?
I’m not a fresh canvas, white.
There are layers to scrape, peel, sand away
before something lovely could be laid down.

You brush a bloody hand right over,
covering all my ruin.

Let there be.

(What can wash away my sin?
Nothing but the blood of Jesus.)