by Ambrose Oyamo

Created on: November 25, 2010

In his usual manner, he makes a caustic bounce along

Earnestly seeking what to steal, kill or destroy as a matter

Of calling, an art and craft that nurtures and defines his rusty  mentality

He neither sleeps nor speculates but bent on his singular career.

The adversary surveys any good treasure to steal from me

Yet, nothing is worth stealing is in me, no good dwells in there

Everything I am is and seems outdated liability

Only Christ is who abides graciously in me is worth stealing.

Faced with such a rare Gem, he squirms, swears and shudders

He's got nothing to take home, no news to report but failure

Therefore, he undertakes seemingly subtle measures to question my faith

With greater capital derived from my fleshly weakness.

A wave of fear suddenly eats through my entire system for a moment

Or two, then as the fateful prodigal son, I remember the Rock from which

I was hewn, I no longer take the threats or even regretful facts personally

Instead, they become my immediate and urgent prayer items, O the beauty of  redemption.

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