I am not a Love Poet

I am not a love poet, my pen is too heavy with eternity

to spend itself on roses and fleeting sighs.

But if I were,  if I bent my words toward love.

I would write of a love older than time, a love that spoke galaxies into being

with nothing but a whisper: “Let there be light.”

If I were a love poet, I would not chase moonlight metaphors,

but I would tell of a God who clothed the earth in green,

who carved rivers for thirsting ground,

who shaped man from dust, and breathed Himself into clay.

And when the first two children stumbled under the serpent’s lie,

this love did not cast them naked into ruin, but stitched coverings with His own hands,

already planning a greater garment,

If I were a love poet, I would not write of candlelit rooms,

but of pillars of fire by night and clouds by day,

of seas split open like pages so His people could walk through on dry ground.

I would sing of manna that fell like mercy,

water that flowed from struck stone,

a Shepherd who never left His flock hungry

even when they wandered in complaint.

If I were a love poet, I would not praise the fragile vows of men,

but I would tell of a covenant sealed in blood and promise,

a Love who bore with Israel’s unfaithfulness,

who spoke through prophets,

who wept over their idols,

yet always came running back,

a Father waiting on the hilltop.

If I were a love poet, I would not write of hearts entwined,

but of hands pierced,

a crown pressed cruelly into brow,

of the Beloved lifted high upon a cross

so that all who looked up would see what love truly means.

Love stretched wide between heaven and earth, closing the bridge sin had built,

crying out, “It is finished.”

And if I were a love poet still, I wouldn’t write of “till death do us part”

but of an empty tomb, with angels rolling back the stone,

with a risen King who calls His bride by name.

I would write of a city not built by men,

where tears will be strangers and songs will never end.

I would write of us;

gathered at the wedding supper of the Lamb,

finally home,

finally whole,

forever held in Love Himself.

But I am not a love poet.

Still, if I were, 

My words would be for the Word, this is the only love worth the ink,

the only love worth my life.