Every Sunday Lord, I tiptoe
around the fire, hoping
to speak just enough of You
that we leave a little warmed
without being consumed
even though, I know, the Word
that incarnates the air about me is
a consuming fire.
How can I play with such a fire
and not get burned?
You are the Word, Lord, speak today
else my words are spoken in vain.
Remind me, even though I die
a thousand deaths upon this pulpit
if I do so believing in you
yet shall I live -
though maybe not to preach another day.