If there are words for Him, then I don't have them.
God, the poet of the universe, who made the autumn to show that there is beauty in letting go of dead things and being naked, bearing our souls before Him like the trees He made, so similar to us, who bend but don't break under the weight of His breath, His wind that blow the dry leaves across the ground.
If there are words for Him, then I don't have them.
God, the creator of pine needles and B-minor, who has never allowed a river to stop flowing because He has to prove to a broken twenty year old girl that the rivers of living water are still an option for her, whose words move the wind and waves to depict His rushing heartbeat when we draw near to Him.
If there are words for Him, then I don't have them.
Jesus, who felt the weight of His soul and heart being crushed under tons of weight and feeling electric shocked like iron against iron to the point of grieving death 1800 years before trains were invented to take me by the hand and scream, "I beat depression for you in that lonely garden where that pain made me love you more and more, where I conquered the problem you think you have to fight. Now beautiful flowers grow in that same spot where I sweat blood...that tree near me where I was praying in Gethsemane would whisper your name if it could, my child, but it can't, so just trust me... I did this for you."
If there are words for Him, then I don't have them.