A Weapon

Sometimes I am dirty, carbon hardened on my bolt, gritty lube in my receiver, and salty sweat on my buttstock.

Sometimes I am torn apart, laid out with all my filthy insides exposed, carefully cleaned, the hard scale meticulously chipped away.

Sometimes I am clean, with a light coat of oil, silent and unused, hanging on His gun rack.

Then there are those days He takes me into the trenches, for purposes I cannot perceive, in ways I could never imagine, with the precision and power that reveals His glory.

I am a weapon.