Stories

See my body;
Hear my voice;
Touch my hand.
All of these to
My existence point,
But is this all there is?
What is there to me
beyond my skin?
Am I a product of
the genetic pool,
Perhaps the accident of my circumstance.
Stories to be told,
Listen Now.
My story is me,
and anything else might be you.
Oh to be known -
Do I dare?

Telling my story from
beginning to end,
from birth to death.
In this I am naked,
more bare than to be seen
devoid of clothes;
All revealed,
Small am I and pitiful.
Will you love me now.
You cannot; you will not
For you to see me as
I am
Will show you what you really are -
The same as me.

Though you will not see
and will not hear,
There is One who
Knows
All of me,
Better than I do myself.
Yet though He knows all things,
And every phenomenon does perceive,
Has chosen to love the
Least of all -
Even me.
With Him there is no turning nor
Changing nor fault in His love.
Knowing all, He has loved
to the end,
The Author of stories
The Author of mine.