A Lament in the Midst of My Dilemna

A “Poem” that flowed forth from my typewriter, in Odessa’s parsonage, on Saturday afternoon, November 18, 1967, when my ‘morrow’s sermon – after hours and days of work, study & meditation – consisted of a blank sheet of paper!

                                 A LAMENT IN MIDST OF MY DILEMMA

Help me, O God, off the horns of my dilemma!

I cry unto Thee every day, O my God.

Is there no relief, My Savior?

                The horns viciously pierce my side,

                My internal organs churn and tighten

                In agony over my nervous tension.

O God, I have sought Thy will and counsel,

Help me, O God, to see clearly the path I am to walk.

                O My God, I would serve Thee with unstinting loyalty.

                Please, may it not be in midst of sorrowful bitterness.

                My antagonists are unwittingly grinding me to dust.

But why, O God, must I endure the affliction of being

Frustrated in doing the task

Which should be my greatest joy???

                Why, O Creator,

                Who has confiscated me for Your noble service,

                Who has touched the hot purging coal to my lips,

                Who has given me the Good News to herald,

                Must my lips prove to be so dumb because

                My pen fails to flourish with the remembrance of Your Spirit?

O God, I can no longer bear the pain and the bitter agony of such frustration…

O Thou God of my undeserved salvation:  Show me a way out!

                My whole being screams out its fervent protest

                At the torture of my seismic sermonic

                Mental block.

Why, when my hands eagerly quiver to unleash

The artistic desire and talent You have implanted within them

Must I wait amidst this dilemma

To artistically pour out my heart at Your feet?

                O God, for the sake of your forgiving Christ

                Saw off the horns of my dilemma;

                Show me Your way,

                And, grant me not relief, but hope;

                Not a bed of ease, but satisfaction in doing that

                For which You have fashioned me.

For you see, my Lord,

You have molded my mind to be

That of a homiletically-misfit theologian,

But – and for this I sing my thanks to You –

You formed me in my mother’s womb

With the soul and heart of an artist.

Copyright by Rev Dr Elmer M. Hohle.

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Posted in The Hohle Grail.

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