“Wow to the land of whirring wings,
along the rivers of Cush,
which sends couriers by sea,
in papyrus vessels on the waters.”
Isaiah 18:1-2
Wow to the skies of whirring winds.
above the darken heavens,
which sets the stars in space,
a parchment of villages below.
Wow to the home of whirring whispers,
around the untamed busy tongue,
which sin is stirred with speech,
a passport to empty eternity.
Wow to the land of whirring whims
along life’s flowing rivers
which sends couriers by sea,
of pamphlets floating on the waters.
“The Lord said, ‘I will take My rest
I will quietly look on from My dwelling,
like shimmering heat in sunshine, like a
cloud of dew in the heat of harvest.’”
Isaiah 18:4
Yet, I will not grow weary with rest,
hushed I will huddle in my home
like flickering faith in light of day,
like abundant skies of endless hope.
While time stretches length of days,
muzzled mouth with words of doubt;
like a glistening ember holding spark,
like bountiful beasts under control.
I say, I will hold my peace,
I will pause and look to God
like the twinkling of great hope,
like ample dew on parched earth.
“For before the harvest,
when the blossom is gone
and the flower becomes
a ripening grape, He will cut
off the shoots with a pruning
knife and remove and
discard the branches.”
Isaiah 18:5
May I not be one of those branches.
Patti Wolf 