What isn’t mine I can’t contest the loss of.
You see beyond all my alleged rights,
past my whining “I deserve,” my proud
entitlement, to my self-permissive
posturing, just a child in tantrum. You slight
me - so it feels - a slight, in love, allowed
because it disciplines. Your answers never
look the way I think they should: denied,
delayed, rounded down and detoured. This
withholding marks the crown of love, however.
What at first is bitter, sweetens over time
as I begin to grasp what grace it is
that You don’t give us that which we request
but that which Your omniscience knows is best.