Let Me Get Home Before Dark

It’s sundown, Lord.

The shadows of my life stretch back

into the dimness of the years long spent.

I fear not death, for that grim foe betrays himself at last,

thrusting me forever into life:



Life with You, unsoiled and free.

But I do fear.

I fear the Dark Spectre may come too soon

- or do I mean, too late?

That I should end before I finish or

finish, but not well.

That I should stain Your honor, shame Your name,

grieve Your loving heart.



Few, they tell me, finish well . . .

Lord, let me get home before dark.



The darkness of a spirit

grown mean and small,

fruit shriveled on the vine,

bitter to the taste of my companions,

burden to be borne by those brave few

who love me still.

No, Lord. Let the fruit grow lush and sweet,

A joy to all who taste;

Spirit-sign of God at work,

stronger, fuller, brighter at the end.

Lord, let me get home before dark.



The darkness of tattered gifts,

rust-locked, half-spent or ill-spent,

A life that once was used of God

now set aside.

Grief for glories gone or

Fretting for a task God never gave.

Mourning in the hollow chambers of memory,

Gazing on the faded banners of victories long gone.

Cannot I run well unto the end?

Lord, let me get home before dark.



The outer me decays -

I do not fret or ask reprieve.

The ebbing strength but weans me from mother earth

and grows me up for heaven.

I do not cling to shadows cast by immortality.

I do not patch the scaffold lent to build the real, eternal me.

I do not clutch about me my cocoon,

vainly struggling to hold hostage

a free spirit pressing to be born.



But will I reach the gate

in lingering pain, body distorted, grotesque?

Or will it be a mind

wandering untethered among light phantasies or grim terrors?



Of Your grace, Father, I humbly ask. . .

Let me get home before dark.

By Robertson McQuilken