The Threshing Floor
Softly now I wait for Him…
He comes with fire and purity.
Gently, like the whisper of a dove’s wings
As it glides aloft upon the wind.
Furiously, like the war cry
Of a thousand mighty men prepared for war.
His thundering tenderness overwhelms me—
I am consumed by a rampant love
I can’t begin to understand.
And He leads me to the threshing floor…
Many times I’ve been here—
This, a cross which frequently
is mine to bear.
Will I ever be the victor?
Or shall this cruel fork
Always find some chaff
within my soul?
The Master takes me,
And casts my weary heart
To the refining, rushing wind.
Oh, the agony of being torn asunder!
Why can I not lie here in peace?
But I know that with pain comes purity,
And somehow I will become the useful grain
And the good seed of the Lord my God.
So I submit, that He may work.
I bow to the Master of Creation,
And He smiles at me
with a tear in His eye.
And He takes His staff
the winnowing of my heart.