God is Limping

I share this poem as we enter Lent — a season of being stripped back to the bare bones of our belovedness

Hey friends, I share this poem as we enter Lent — a season of being stripped back to the bare bones of our belovedness, walking in the footsteps of Jesus, who in His fragility was tempted in every way, dependent on the voice of His Abba echoing in His heart from the banks of His baptism.

May we, in our limping and longing, learn to drown out the voices of distraction and tune our hearts to grace.

---

God is limping through the desert plains,
bent double, chapped lips, His ribs on display.
I heard He’s been out here for days.

The sun beats down with burning fists upon His back—
no mercy for her Maker.
She is doing what she was made for.

“You asked for this,” she whispers.
Her light bends through the burning air.

He groans.

He knows He could turn the stone into sourdough,
but whispers,
“Man cannot live on bread alone.”
His stomach folds at the mere thought of loaves.

He knows He could send for angels to rescue Him—
to whisk Him away to an oasis,
perhaps the Maldives—white sand, turquoise waves.

But instead He says,
“Do not test your God,”
as if restraining His power
for an hour yet to come.

He knows the world, and all within it, is already His.
But the way you pursue something
defines how you possess it.

And His path is marked by a sorrow too precious to waste,
and a cup filled with suffering
that His chapped lips must taste.