1-3 A white-tailed deer drinks

from the creek;

I want to drink God,

deep drafts of God.

I’m thirsty for God-alive.

I wonder, "Will I ever make it—

arrive and drink in God’s presence?"

I’m on a diet of tears—

tears for breakfast, tears for supper.

All day long

people knock at my door,

Pestering,

"Where is this God of yours?"