Since I died in you all I can speak is poetry.
This isn’t even my voice!
My flesh is your flesh, my blood your blood;
In fact, there is no more ‘my’, ‘I’ or ‘me’:
That old self has been put off, to make room
For the new man, set in your righteousness.
You are the potter, the kiln, the fire, the wheel
And now the wine jug, the wine and the patron!
This prayer is full of groanings, of wordless gratitude,
Already covered in your grace, steeped in your mercy.
Out of mind and body, caught up in the third heaven,
You whisper your love in the sound of the wind
And it sings of salvation.
Back of the Choir 