I cannot find the words to share my grief.
I sit instead in silence, and I mourn
Those dreams that were conceived but never born.
I pray for rest, for respite, for relief.
Remind me of the gospel’s grand motif:
Light for the lost and hope for the forlorn.
This all is grace, the flower and the thorn.
Lord, I believe, but help my unbelief.
I am a broken soul haunted by fears
With naught to offer but these feeble prayers
For hope and help to trust you through the tears.
With glory soon revealed, no pain compares,
So I cling now to you, the God who hears.
O Father, comfort me in these affairs.
Photo by TOMOKO UJI on Unsplash
Lettered by blood; word conceived, breathed,
Unread, Unknown (momentary
Matters appear more pressing). Sheathed
Stays the saving sword, soul’s defense
Lowered, life left unguarded. Lost
Direction. Subscribed to false sense
Of security, of the cost
Of trading truth and life and way
For pirate’s treasure: cursed, unclean,
Corrosive to these hearts of clay
So fragile. Unperceived, unseen
Light under a basket, hidden
City on a hill: no help, no
Sanctity, no sin forbidden.
Soon food for the father below.
Photo by Taylor Ann Wright on Unsplash