As the deer longs for streams of water, so my soul longs after You
My soul thirsts for God, the living God. When can I go and meet with God?
Desire of the ages,
sweet hunger of the prefall soul,
become unmet longing obscured by clamor,
driving forces of a busy world,
a fallen heart’s bent,
and, from its disease-wracked parts,
till it lies buried beneath all their debris,
pushed aside as a extra to life,
if one has the time.
A hidden ache.
Within all, a vacuum crying desperate hunger.
And so to fill it,
try this and that, and something else,
and it never does quite satisfy,
there’s still the gnawing emptiness,
made vague by those distractions.
Clear the debris, dear Lord!
Sweep it away,
even if it costs me all those competing desires,
so I can see the famine inside,
and then look up,
and see the bread that fills it,
the only bread that fills it.
And stretch out hungry hands,
And hunger yet more ever after,
but a sweeter hunger,
absent of the awful ache.