Makob

Your first word was 

Light. That gift You knew 

we would need more than

any other, and even as you spoke it,

let there be, You were already 

a Man of Sorrows.

Even as our making flew 

from Your lips You knew

grief. For You there was no

awakening to this, no slow

dawn of suffering: it was Yours

already, even as You thundered

it is good. 

Still we bend to question

this. We look up from under 

stars and blackness and we

wonder or rage. We did not ask

for this life, God. Yes, it feels 

unfair to be born into sin

and then to walk with these wounds

on a dark path weeping. 

So much weeping. 

Your answer on this dim

side of the door: Your walking

with me, weeping at my side, 

going ahead of me into death, 

paying all. I know this is my 

freedom but I cannot always

grasp the joy. Jesus, sometimes

it still feels like anguish.

Still I am here and I can choose. 

Stay with You

or not. 

How easy it would be to 

turn, to flaunt my

freedom, to surrender

to the calls of my self-

love. Relief. But how could 

I then take joy in the 

sunrise, sit with the birdsong or take

my child into my arms? How 

could I turn from the suffering

You allow without also denying

Your gifts? 

So I stay, breathe in the morning

mercies as I clutch the broken. 

I suppose when You say one day You

will wipe away every tear this 

includes Your own. I suppose 

if You can look along the long

corridor of suffering knowing

it is Yours to bear and still 

You say yes, yes, it is good, this

is good—if You, for very love

of me, would do this, would 

ask me to join You, I can 

at least hold out my shaking

hand. Let Your scarred one wrap

around it. If You will allow 

this doubting belief, this angry

trust, if You will keep calling

for me when I try to hide

from You, if You will show me

Your tears and promise to catch

my own, then You will help

me go with You.

Help me build my writing by following me on Substack (it really helps!)

https://substack.com/@julielit