I’ve been trying to post a bit of poetry around here lately. Admittedly, I write lyrics for songs far more than for poetry, but sometimes the words come across better read aloud rather than sung.
Lately I’ve been thinking through Psalm 1 and the caution given in the way we approach sin. First we see the man walking with the wicked, then standing with sinners, then seated with scoffers. I don’t want to put too much emphasis on the progression of sin here, but I think the caution is that sin will take you farther than you ever planned to go.
While meditating on this Psalm and considering what it means to guard your heart from sin, I remembered an old set of lyrics I wrote after watching what seemed like a slew of folks run headlong into life-altering sin. It never started with taking a seat in sin. It always started with dabbling in it. Just walking with it. Or near it.
We tend to let down our guard when it comes to the temptations we think are harmless.
They never are.
Rain is coming down in sheets,
an omen of converging strengths.
It was a long way off, I watched it
swell and swallow the suspecting.
I have always battened down my hatches,
guarding what was mine with locks and latches
but standing in the rain I find distraction
as dangerous as drowning.
Maybe it’s the hurricane ‘cause I have never seen such rain;
the storm that was so far away has made an inward play.
I have always blamed the ones who willingly seem to succumb—
they could have run and taken cover instead of standing still
but it’s too late when storm moves in.
You’re swallowed by the wind.
Rivulets of rain run down my face, all mingled with fear and I can taste
the tempting of what’s new and lovely, unfamiliar in its luring.
Soaked down to my skin and underneath, ugliness exposed and tearing free,
what tasted wet and cool and deep has finally swallowed me.
Why did I stay?
Did I trade what I thought I could not lose?
I should have run when the clouds first hid the sun.
Now I’m stranded
and I’m standing
guilty and broken and–
soaking.
I blamed it on the hurricane but I was caught out in the rain.
The storm that seemed so far away had made an inward play.
Now I am numbered with the ones who willingly chose to succumb—
I should have run and taken cover instead of standing still
but it’s too late when the storm moves in.
It’s too late.
It’s too late.
It’s too late.
You’re swallowed by the wind.
-Glenna Marshall, ©2015
Photo by Artyom Kulikov on Unsplash
Glenna Marshall is married to her pastor, William, and lives in rural Southeast Missouri where she tries and fails to keep up with her two energetic sons. She is the author of The Promise is His Presence (P&R) and Everyday Faithfulness (Crossway), and Memorizing Scripture (Moody). Connect with her on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter.