What is my life but a speck in a Rubens,
a drop in the Pacific,
a particle in the Superdome?
Yet I step up onto my pedestal
(or my soapbox)
and crown myself queen of the world--
this world, and not the next--
expecting subordinates to bow to me:
circumstances, peers, even churches.
If only perspective were so visual
that I could daily see the hilarity
in my monarchy:
the ragged filth I flaunt as robes,
the fetching stick I wave as a wand,
the rubbish pile I step into as a stage--
All before the glory, perfection, and brightness
of a Holy Throne Room,
of a rightful Lord
in the presence of pure and deserved praise--
I would cry with the prophet,
"Woe is me, for I am undone!"
and surrender my accusations, orders,
and expectations
for unadulterated devotion.
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