By Chioma Onu


Take me to the King
I don’t have much to bring
My heart is torn in pieces
It’s my offering
Lay me at the throne
Leave me there alone
To gaze upon your glory
And sing to you this song
Please take me to the King

--- Tamela Mann, “Take me to the King”


Day will break when Sun shall spill its rosebud rays across my cheeks,


Treading upon hardened soil, my feet press on, steadily, feeble, towards You. I trudge
alone, one raw-edged step after the next. In one hand, I hold my Heart, a blistered bundle of
scathing scars. In the other, its Guardian-Angel. They’ve scythed its wings. Left the gashes to
over-bleed into the night. My fingers, still saturated with clotting gunk, have sorely failed to
dress the wound. An abrasive tearing, wailing, low, in my chest, extirpates the last humors
from my stonewashed eyes. Closed lids, envisioning Your glorious Throne…

Bones, aching for a stroke. My body has dried out, my anchylosed legs beg for Logic
to cut my wild race to the nacreous shades of the Grace in Your arms – short. But I will
carry on, clambering to the top. It’s You I want to meet. Your embrace awaits me,
mountainous like the love sewn to a mother’s guts. I will not stop the race. Keep striving to
the peak. I am crawling, a worm, expiring, glimmerings of Your touch in the huff of a
dream... There, at the top, I will lay at Your feet my blood-soaked offering. You will take
hold of it – that anguished, ragged Heart – and Your soothing Spirit, in a heavenly weave,
shall knit the Guardian back to its severed Angel-wings.

Thus mended and redeemed, I will bloom like Day, breaking open the skies with the
flap of my wings. And my Heart, pure and healed, celestial like a kiss, shall out-beam the
Sun’s smile, rosy cheeks spilling rays.