Though I feel
at times
broken or
empty (as though
plundered, as
though
bruising fingers
have rifled
through the leaves
of my mind
and found little
but have torn it and
crushed it anyway,
for fun),
though I feel
at times
like nothing
good escapes the
searing heat
of this world,
though I feel
at times
wounded
and lonely and
bent from what I’m
meant to be,
there is hope.
Do you hear me?
There is hope.
“Sometimes
the bravest thing of all
is to hope.”
I remember my affliction and my wandering,
the bitterness and the gall.
I well remember them,
and my soul is downcast within me.
Yet this I call to mind
and therefore I have hope:
Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
--Lamentations 3:21-23
Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
--Lamentations 3:21-23
2 comments:
I'm sure you had more beautiful, more important things on your mind as inspiration for this poem... but when I read it, it so reminded me of my current "Mother-of-a-toddler" state of mind.
Not because I'm [a] strong [mother]; because it (my toddler) just won't go away
Bruising fingers touching, grabbing, tearing (physical and mental) stuff for fun
Nothing good escapes the searing heat of [the tactile learning process of a 19-mo-old] Lonely and bent from what I'm meant to be [mother? of this person?]
There is hope (that they will grow up)!
:) love you, Amy. Glad you're my sister:)
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