I am seeking; I will find.

I've lost me.
Where am I?
Misplaced me.
I cry.

Songs echo
Through my head:
Words the pope has said:

Become
Become
"Become who you are."

I'm here. I'm me.
But I'm not me
Yet.

Both here and now
And later still
I sit up in my window sill
And think of who I am.

Who am I?

Yours.
I'm Yours.
I'm Yours. I'm Yours. I'm Yours.

One day, I will understand
The depths of that reality.

Spending time with Christ, the King

Face down on the cold, tile floor,

A breeze blows strong across my face--

A jet stream under the exit door.

I feel Your peaceful, warm embrace.

You peer at me from behind the veil.

That wood oct' box is humble ware--

A strange throne and a stranger cloth

To clothe the King of Everywhere.

Yet like You I am made to be:

Humble like the King of Kings,

Servant to the servants low,

Servant to my Lord I'll sing.

Yet first I must quick lay me down,

And all that I am grasping to,

But I cannot do such a thing

Unless it's physically true.

And so my face the hard floor hits

And I my bones try to relax

And sink as much as possible

Into the ground below my chest.

For sacramentally I'm made,

And sacramentally I act.

A human still so plagued with sin,

Sunk deep in earthen soil that

What spirit needs to bloom in me

Must first be physically fact.

Psalm 4

The frames and faces on my wall,
The smell of pumpkin bread in fall,
The house, the town, the church, the tree:
All these security to me.

But false are they as much as real--
False if they're my heart's only seal.
For only You can hold my heart
When I stumble through the dark,
And only You can guide my way
Up treach'rous pathways day by day
When everything I once held near
Slips 'tween my fingers, disappears,
Leaving me alone with fear
In silent mists of white and grey.

All is sand and tide is swift;
My castles are no match for it.

But I am not alone in this.
You offer no betrayal's kiss.
In sleep Your rest will be my cure,
For You alone make me secure.