Freedom: A Poem

Freedom (Romans 6)


“I’m tired of hiding who I

Really am,” he says. And runs in,

Arms flailing, head down, free

Way down in his mind. They clap,

Who stand along the bars. Their

Ebullient words echo off

The cage—dampened by metal.


He clanks and scrapes the chain snaked

Around his ankle. “Now, I’m



Still, even while he courses

Around the cage, that same Voice

That’s always called, calls still.


A Variation on Psalm 1: Like the Rain

You let rain bead down your nose and don’t
Wipe it away. You like the taste. That Word
Sits heavy in your head, falling out when you
Talk—or don’t. You’re good crazy, the kind
That doesn’t lock the door when it’s cloudy.
You planted a pumpkin in the flower box
On a Sunday afternoon, and now it’s
Growing. You feel like that, growing in
Unexpected places and still—somehow—making
Pumpkins. You God-please.

But a decade ago, you huddled inside away from
The November rain. And yet it still beat against
The window nonstop. You hated it. It hated you.

God didn’t stop the rain. He made you like it.