What am I doing here?
I asked this of me.
This can't be the place
I'm supposed to be.
This is not the way
I planned it at all.
I was certain that I
Had a nobler call.
What am I doing here?
I wanted to know.
So few here need me—
Should I pack and go?
There must be a place
That God has for me;
If only I knew
Where that place might be.
What am I doing here?
I hadn't a clue.
There must be great things
I'm destined to do—
To make for myself
A remembered name
And bask in the glory
Of fortune and fame.
Then, with the asking,
I uttered a prayer:
Where You would, Father,
I'll hasten there.
But not in earthquake,
In wind, or in fire—
The one still, small voice
Bids self-will retire.
I heard: "Take off your sandals,
For where you stand
Is holy ground, child.
You are in My hand.
Seek not tomorrow
Or faraway land—
You are forever
In your rightful place."
What I am doing here?
I'm learning today
To pray, then listen
And promptly obey;
To include creation
In pure affection,
And behold everyone
As God's reflection.
