from the margins

i sit upon the bench
beside the quiet street.
the fountain celebrates
the whispers of the trees.

the february night
collects the mist and chill.
in answer to the rain,
the starlight disappears.

one shadow brushes past
the nearby stand of trees.
another scales the heights,
and waits expectantly.

i wonder whence they came?
i watch them patiently.
do they know i am here?
am i a wraith they see?

as in life's passages,
ever outside feel i.
yet still there is a call,
to take my cross and die

so i may ever live
for the Lord Jesus Christ.
i lay down all i am.
in him, myself i hide.

and thus he puts to rights
the world in which i live.
he turns my face to him,
his grace, he freely gives.

6 February 2009 by Glen Alan Woods