Being Bound

At first I was bound.
Like a hound to the sound
of his breakfast hitting the bowl.
Invisible chains restrained,
a harness to foil my refrain.
I made the locks,
clamped the stocks,
threw the rocks,
for from me and through me and to me I made up God.
God who was not there,
who was nowhere anywhere.
I formed him from my own,
clay from experience and what I’d been shown.
I made him strong and full of might,
so I dare not transgress what he called right.
I made him know all there was inside,
so he could find the inklings of my shallowest pride.
I made him deep and very wide,
so I could stretch and grow my mind.
I made him crasy and made him wild,
so I’d not be too close and trust his smile.
I made him fire, too good for me,
so in my failure I could feel his heat.
I made him to figure my fixes,
to riddle my tricks and
make me better.
I made him for me;
to achieve;
to believe
in something.
I finally felt the chains,
the scars from whips which I had made,
the hopeless burrow I had caved.
This God, this other than I
was a dying hole which
I dug deeper to try.
The sting of my pain
realized my gain:
I was nothing.
I had failed.
I was bound and knew it now,
for what we call good is what I sought.
The goodness of lessons and sayings,
of contorting so others will clap.
It deepened the distance between truth and fact.

At last I was bound.
Bound to God.
The one of existence, not of mind or mud.
The God who lives,
and willingly loves.
Under no obligation,
promise or fee;
through tribulation
tears and . . .
Me.

I am bound to forgiveness and bound to his grace.
I am bound for eternity, face to face