Your offering shall be
without blemish
without blemish
What can a man do?
What can a man do
that is with out blemish?
What can a man give?
What can I do?
What can I give?

The calves no longer bawl
Nor the goats bleat
Frantic dove wings do not beat
in fear

What can I give
What can I bring
but
myself

As a craftsman knows his tools
a potter know his product,
So You know me.
A blunted blade
A crooked awl
A cracked pot
An urn misshapen.

Your offering shall be
without blemish
I can only bring
myself
Will Malachi condemn me?
I have surely brought a sacrifice
Blind
Lame
Not quite right.
Shall I bring the offering
The offering of my heart?
Where is my prayer that is pure
Unselfish
not weighted with some
Self interest?
Even my prayer is
Marred
Imperfect
Blemished

Your offering shall be
without blemish.
How?
How?
How?

Shall I sing?
Shall I lift my voice
in a new song?
in an old song?
In praise
in gratitude
Even in depth of singing
even from my deepest place
there is
“I hope this sounds good.”
or worse
“Boy! This sounds good.”
A scab of ego
or
fear
clinging to the melody.

Shall I help others?
But
lifting the fallen
directing the lost
clothing the naked
feels good.
There is
pleasure
in service
joy
in kindness
and
A bit in self congratulation
A broken wing
hindering the flight to
true service.

Your offering shall be
without blemish.

Please
please
You know me
You know me
better than
I know myself.

The poor man could bring
a bird
When it was burned
It was burned
with its feathers
It was said to have
a pleasing odor.
Burning feathers?
Really?
A pleasing odor?
Rather
let me believe
You were
Pleased
Pleased to accept
What a poor man could bring.

I am poor
I am poor
in spirit
in virtue
In vigor
to do your will.
But  accept me
Accept my brokenness
Accept my blemish
I can only bring you
what I am
what I have
Whatever that may be
It is Yours.

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