I should call You, “My Father.”
Lift me up in my infant faith,
And lay me against Your breast,
Where Your heartbeat comforts me.
Your presence, undeniable.
Swaddle me in Your love,
A finer fabric than any ever felt.
Teach me to walk.
I’ll come to You on tottering feet,
And follow in Your footsteps.
Father! teach me to run!
So I will be quick to do Your will.
Then, teach me to be patient.
To wait for that time to plant,
And that time to pluck up what is planted.¹
Teach me to rejoice in the waiting,
You’re with me even then.
Teach me to steward what You’ve prepared for me.
For nothing escapes Your notice,
Or evades the movement of your hand.
In all these things, Father,
Teach me to teach,
As You have taught me.
Then I will see Your face.

¹ Ecclesiastes 3