Poem: Song of the Bride


Poetry is personal. I dug through my pile of thrashing on paper before, looking for something to share but most of the verbiage lies too near my heart to publish. A post over on Anna’s blog brought this free verse to mind and after a quick read-through, I’m thinking maybe others can relate.

I wrote this when my voice was gone entirely. I walked through the house day after day, careful to focus on the floor to keep from making eye contact with the beast. He said he didn’t like the way I looked at him. It made him angry. He ‘could tell what I was thinking’ and punished me when I no longer felt by going after the children. I did what I had to do to get through each day.

For those who might not be familiar, the imagery here speaks of a common teaching in the church concerning the Bride of Christ. The concept of a conquering King returning for His Beloved is both mysterious and haunting and that’s the realm where I believe it belongs– A mystery, near the heart of God, to be revealed in His perfect timing.

Song of the Bride

I want to sing of Your goodness but I have no voice.

Birds sing,

Whales sing.

My voice alone is muted.

Of all the creatures in all the universe, I know Your kindness, the depth of Your love, Your fire, Your passion. Our story is written in the heavenlies, blared across time, hidden in Your creation.

I can tell Your marvelous works, outline the majesty of Your compassion, string together the thread of Your determination to pursue a bride, to purchase her freedom, to bathe her wounds in the oil of anointing, the wine of gladness.

And I have no voice.

Let me declare Your goodness into the heavens. Let me tell of Your sweetness to a new generation. Let me proclaim Your salvation, the acceptable year of the Lord.

Let me hold You close, sing into Your ear of little things, quiet things we share.

You have sung over me from the time of my coming into this world. Your songs awakened my heart to dream of arms that hold without demand. Behind I see a trail of songs, bringing life, bringing hope, resurrecting the dead.

And I have no voice.


Another song I ask of You. Awaken the dead once more and sing me a voice into this sleeping world.

Once You declared the rocks would cry out if your people were silent.

What will happen if Your Bride is mute?

Prepare a voice for me, keep it safe until You call it forth in the fullness of Your time.

Until that day, I will lay in Your arms and sing tiny songs of freedom.

Your smile is my very great reward.

November 29, 2009

13 responses »

  1. Thanks for sharing, Ida Mae. The Bridegroom hears the prayers of His bride. I can’t imagine the wrath that awaits for all who have so cruelly abused her.

    • The imagery God uses to speak of His Beloved is so beautiful. The imagery He uses to speak of those who hurt the helpless is powerful stuff–not beautiful exactly but bold and magnificent. The Day of the Lord will be a wondrous thing when all things are revealed. Easy to forget in the middle of the mud puddle when you think you can’t make another minute, much less a day.

      “But I am persuaded that He if faithful to keep that which I’ve committed unto Him against that day.”

      You can tell which century *I* cracked the hymnbook 🙂

  2. Simply beautiful…
    Your voice is being heard and giving strength to my own and so many others, to once again speak… sing…

    • Renee, I do believe it’s time for those who’ve walked through fire to start challenging those who keep the sheep in bondage. Head knowledge without a heart knowing of the Savior equals door-knob dead, twice plucked up. I’m so tired of it.

    • Thanks Anna.

      I got a little nudge this morning– ‘you told Anna you’d find that poem, remember?’

      Sometimes I listen better half asleep 🙂

  3. Pingback: Poem: Song of the Bride | At the end of myself…at the feet of Jesus

  4. Ida Mae, no wonder your loss of voice was such a grief for you. Your natural voice is powerful, clear, serene, strong, sounding out across the mountain chains, echoing into every valley, resonating between every blade of grass… You have a gift that few have. It was locked up, shrouded, buried behind the veil. And now it’s alive.
    Your spirit longed for the freedom to voice. No wonder this poem came about. What God had gifted into you had been frozen in dry ice, without oxygen.
    But now you’re free.
    “For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them.” (Eph. 2:10)

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