I guess it's poetic?

Justice
I, like Ahaz, fear.
I meet you at the upper pool,
But leave your wisdom where I found it.

The justice you desire
I leave in my pocket next to my keys.
I leave it there almost reaching for it, but never actually doing it.
I leave it there in my prayers too.
Every now and then my heart stirs to exercise it,
But my will always chooses safety over risk, wealth over poverty, keeping over giving, and silence over words.
Indeed, “in my fast I seek my own pleasure, and oppress your people.”
How, with these words do I live?

I read your words of restoration and judgment.
Oh how convenient my constant restoration
And, how coincidental my unfamiliarity with judgment.
I know restoration like my name,
I know judgment like I know hunger.
Perhaps Ahaz knew at least some guilt?
I simmer guilt and conviction until they smell like righteousness,
And then, I serve them to friends as appetizers,
Instead of giving them the real me.
I wouldn’t know the difficulty of homelessness,
Because I’ve always had a home.
I wouldn’t know the pain of hunger,
Because I’ve always known gluttony.
I wouldn’t know the challenge of orphans to fit in,
Because I’ve always been accepted.

Father, you may be screaming judgments,
But I’m so convinced that you love me
I can’t imagine discipline.

Mission
The word in itself is confused.
Misunderstood, misused.
We make it all about the food,
Or all about conversion.
Neither satisfy you.
Some bend human necks toward your truth out of fear.
Others do so out of anger.
A few do so out of love.

A pretty check mark soothes my conscience
As I sign my name on the line,
As I put the letter in the mail.
Now I can forget it ‘til next month.
Praise God.

We can breath better if we create programs,
Instead of engendering a universal urge to care.
“Let a few do it.”
“It’s not my gift.”
“We have needs here, too.”
Ignorance prevents compelling.
Pride prevents understanding.
It’s at the heart of You with other things.
It’s not just near it.

Restoration
Muddy, filthy, tired, worn.
Cold, gloomy, bitter, voiceless.

I’m tired from screaming.
Freezing from the cold rain. Wet.
Left alone in the darkness to fend for myself.
I’ve climbed and walked and ran for years.
I’ve worn these same shoes and walked every kind of road.
I’ve searched for this place that my father talked about, but haven’t found it.

You speak of vineyards and built houses.
You speak of age-old trees.
You speak of wolves and lambs together.
I don’t see it. All I see is my own misery.
Clean, sharp, rested, new.
Warm, bright, sweet, boisterous.

I’m renewed from fighting.
The corner that you found me in is a memory. I’m dry.
I’m no longer alone, but in a coffee shop with community.
The climbing and walking and running isn’t over, but it’s not alone.
The shoes I wear are often traded with friends so the roads seem shorter.
You found me in my giving up, you found in my fathers prayers.

I see your planting vineyards and building houses.
I can imagine the joy of living as old as trees.
I can pray for the playing of wolves and lambs.
I trust it. I see you in the struggle.