Finishing Life Well

Kids, I came across this poem by Robert McQuilkin the other day and it touched me deeply. Mr. McQuilkin is a notable man in the Christian academic world. He has been “tested” in numerous ways and in his journey his desire is still and simply to not falter, but to persevere. Although, He is more aged than I; identifying with his heart is quite easy for me. You have heard me lament that life is but a vapor and that I fear greatly wasting my life on earthly things. Such is each of our struggles. I humbly ask you to take notice when I am tracking correctly, and if in my aging I stumble and you see me becoming a man of mean spirit eagerly love me by telling that I am out of focus. So, read this poem that I hope will be a prayer answered for me as my days rush toward night.

Lord, 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.

That 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 grown 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 once was used of God now set aside. Grief for glories gone or fretting for a task God never gave. Morning in the hollow chambers of memory, gazing on 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 of 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 the light fantasies or grim terrors? Of your grace, Father, I humbly ask…
Let me get home before dark.