What patience, His, to watch our stumblings,
having paid for every one,
and then with yearning heart to seek us,
only then to watch us run.
The longing gaze of He Who Sees is
bearing down upon the blind
who scratch and scrabble for some purchase,
solid ground long left behind.
The scale His, the weight, the measure,
His the standard, His the bar
that not one of the prideful fallen
have approached yet by afar.
And yet in whispers, shouts and screaming,
deep within, and far above
He speaks aloud, and proves in power,
evermore, His word is love.