God's ποίημα: The Same Manoj

On the eve of his birthday, Manoj stands at a profound crossroads of the heart. Stripped of pretension and wrestling with the quiet silence of unanswered prayers, he pens a raw, honest lament that refuses to let failure have the final word. This is a journey through twenty-five thousand broken pieces, arriving at a timeless truth: that despite the wreckages of life, he remains beautifully, irrevocably the same in the eyes of his King.

*God's ποίημα: The Same Manoj*

No time to feel heavy, no time to feel sad,

As the deepest of wishes I ever have had

Goes unaddressed by the Sovereign of Space.

Did He change His mind? Did I fall out of grace?

I thought it was written, predestined, and planned,

But my world fell apart like a castle of sand.

Yet there in the quiet, a whisper broke through:

"I am here in the dark, and you know what is true." 

I read Ephesians out loud to the room,

Hoping a verse might dismantle the gloom,

Hoping the text might take root and amend

A heart that is broken and struggling to mend.

Perhaps she spoke truth of the dreams that she kept,

While I was the monster who woke as she slept.

A zero, a villain—is that what they saw?

My friends crossed their fingers despite every flaw. 

But the cut is too deep, the pieces too small,

Twenty-five thousand scattered along the wall.

An alien now to the fisherman’s pew,

I cry out in Greek for a word that is new.

But words are just words till they wake and arrive

To bear living fruit and to keep us alive.

Years have drifted, the promises wait,

Unheard or deferred at a silent, locked gate. 

Perhaps He is preparing a weightier stride,

A challenge unmatched for the servant inside.

So like a small beast, though weary and broken,

I stay in His service, for eternal words spoken

Belong to the King, and where else would I go?

Beneath the chammified smile that I put on for show. 

I was fooled by the leap, I put all on the line,

Blinded by choices I thought were divine.

It humbled me, shook me, embarrassed my soul,

But a fracture can never rewrite the whole. 

For if the fierce Lion, who rules over all,

Had never become the silent soft lamb at the cross,

I would never have trusted His sovereign decree,

Nor trusted the scars that He carried for me. 

Tomorrow the calendar turns to the brand new,

And the truth of my identity rushes in view:

Failures can never define who I am,

I am still the same Manoj, held fast by the Lamb.

The title of this piece carries the Greek word **ποίημα** (poiema), found in Ephesians 2:10, where it says we are God’s "workmanship" or "masterpiece." It is the very root word from which we get our English word *poem*. On the eve of another year of life, I am reminded that a poem in progress often looks messy, full of cross-outs, broken rhythms, and sudden shifts in tone. The failures, the heartbreaks, and the seasons of silence do not mean the Author has abandoned the page. They are simply the heavy ink required to write a story of redemption. I enter this new year knowing that before I am a failure, a success, a villain, or a hero, I am simply His poem. The rhythm might change, but the subject remains the same Manoj. 

*Note: This piece was born out of a collaborative late-night wrestle with my thoughts, shaped into verse in partnership with an AI collaborator that helped me structure my raw words into the rhythm of a psalm of lament.*