We are a fragile flock,
we specks of life,
and our hearts scatter,
skittish,
at first doubt.
And we're easily drawn aside,
from His side,
when greener grass and tales of treasure
catch our attention.
And we're stubborn and shallow and sensitive---
a fragile flock---
but deep in our souls,
we do feel.
We feel so much
and yearn and long and hope.
We yearn for home;
we can't enjoy the day
not knowing where we'll lay our heads at night.
Take away our familiar place,
and you pull the ground from beneath our feet.
We lose our footing and fall on our backs
and find ourselves staring at the sky.
We need a solid place,
we fragile flock;
Without a home
we scarce know who we are.
And so we wonder, dazed and scared and lost,
"If I don't have a place, then who am I?"
We don't want to be pilgrims.
Not us.
We want to be lords.
We want a place,
a safe place;
we want a home.
Our only constant sights are the cotton in the day sky
and the twinkles in the night
and the Shepherd whom we follow.
His face, his staff, his feet.
"Lift up your eyes!"
He always tells me
when I grumble about leaving home again,
how that home will never be my home again,
but how the next place won't be like home now,
so
WHERE IS MY HOME.
"Lift up your eyes," He says,
and so I do.
I see the heavens and I heave a sigh.
I know my home is heaven;
it sounds nice.
But I am just a speck in a fragile flock;
I need some sort of home
here on this earth!
I need some sort of home
before I die!
"My lamb, you have a home here;
lift your eyes!"
And so I lift my eyes
and I look higher,
much higher than the sky,
and I see Him.
~Cheríe
