First Cup—Poetry Friday

From one who often feels left outside, still hiding
after everyone has gone indoors:



He knows who I am.
He calls me by my name.
Even though I am in many ways like everyone else,
I am distinguishable from all others
He sees me.

He says, Arthur, lamb, I am here.
He says, Arthur, for you.
He says, Arthur, for you all along
He says, Arthur, calling you by name since the beginning of time.
He asks, Arthur, where do you think you are?
He says, Arthur, there is no hiding from me—not really
because, he says, Arthur, I see you.
I know you, Arthur, better than you know yourself.
He says, Arthur, I would enfold you.

In fact, Arthur, I do enfold you and
have carried you in my arms;
you have never been heavy. You are not heavy.
My words for you, Arthur, are

Olly olly oxen free, free, free.